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Published by: Institute of History, Research Centre for the Humanities, Hungarian Academy of Sciences

2021_4_Révész

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Soldiers in the Revolution: Violence and Consolidation in 1918 in the Territory of the Disintegrating Kingdom of Hungary

Tamás Révész
Research Centre for the Humanities
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Hungarian Historical Review Volume 10 Issue 4  (2021):737-767 DOI 10.38145/2021.4.737

In November 1918, as in other countries in Central and Eastern Europe, a large wave of violence swept across the territory of the crumbling Kingdom of Hungary. Soldiers returning from the fronts played a key role in the acts of looting that were committed everywhere. At the same time, many of the soldiers joined the various paramilitary policing units that were being formed. In the traditional historiography, one finds essentially two attempts to explain the behavior of these soldiers. Left-leaning interpretations have tended to characterize the events as precursors to an early agrarian socialist revolution, while more nationalistic interpretations have seen them as the first steps in a national revolution. Drawing on archival sources which until now have remained unused, this essay discusses the background and motivations of the soldiers involved in the looting. It then analyses the circumstances surrounding the formation of law enforcement guard forces and the motivations of those who joined these forces.

Keywords: WWI veterans, green cadres, paramilitarism, brutalization, peasant violence, revolution

On November 3, 1918, the denizens of a small village called Adony, situated 50 km south of Budapest, held a popular assembly. The crowd wanted to raise flour rations, bring prices down to peacetime levels, and abolish the food rationing system. Last and in all likelihood not least, they wanted to open the taverns and put an end to the alcohol ban that had been in place. According to the official reports, the core of the rioters consisted of Austro-Hungarian veterans who had fought in World War I. The frightened notary, together with the merchants and landowners, appeared willing to meet their demands. Nevertheless, the crowd broke into the shops during the night and either stole or destroyed everything they found. The looters only plundered the stores owned by Jews, saying that they would break into the stores owned by Christians the next day. They never got the chance, however. A police force arrived from the barracks in the nearby city of Székesfehérvár and put an end to the upheaval. Two people were executed, and with the help of the local aldermen, a national guard was organized in the village consisting of men who had served as soldiers.1

This episode offers a clear illustration of two patterns of behavior that were typical of soldiers of Austria-Hungary returning from the fronts in early November 1918. As was the case in other successor states of the disintegrating empire, the members of the once proud Habsburg armed forces played a key role in the large-scale disturbances of the peace that were breaking out. At the same time, many of them were joining the various leftwing, rightwing, nationalist, or completely apolitical paramilitary formations which were springing up all over the country like mushrooms.

In the traditional historiography of the post-Habsburg states, one finds essentially two explanations for the behavior of these soldiers. According to the socialist revolutionary narrative, the events of 1918 were antecedents to a genuine Bolshevik revolution. The people at the heart of the disturbances were allegedly (according to this explanation) seeking to create a just communist society, but they were unable to do so in the absence of a political party to lead them.2 This leftwing narrative appeared in this blunt, extreme form almost exclusively in Hungary in the successor states, it was often intertwined with a nationalist interpretation, and the two appeared together.3

According to this latter interpretation, the soldiers who were returning from the front rejected the rule of the “oppressive” empires and strove resolutely to create nation-states. For instance, in his narrative concerning the transformation of the region in 1918, Marián Hronský contends that, following the collapse of the old system, the Slovak peasantry, filled with an elusive sense of freedom, attacked their former oppressors. The fact that members of the Slovak intelligentsia were able to quell the riots offers, according to Hronský, a clear indication of the fundamentally nationalistic nature of the uprising. He argued that the people responsible for the disturbances recognized these elites as their legitimate leaders.4 One finds similar interpretations in the traditional Romanian historiography as well. Gheorghe Iancu, for instance, argues that a “genuine Romanian national revolution took place” in November 1918, which finally brought Transylvania under the control of the Romanian-speaking majority.5

In recent decades, modern historiography has tried to provide more nuanced analyses of the interwar transformation of the region. The current literature tends to emphasize the importance of continuity, especially on the local level, and it presents the transformation from empire to nation-state as a slow and gradual process.6 This trend coincides with the emergence of new innovative studies discussing the role of war veterans in the interwar period. Most of these inquiries have dealt primarily with far-right groups which formed in the ruins of the disintegrating empires. They argue that the experiences of the returning veterans during the violent months of late 1918 an early 1919 led to their quick radicalization. These ex-servicemen continued to fight against the “internal enemies” of the nation, and their actions greatly contributed to the violent political culture of the region. In the case of Hungary, Béla Bodó published pioneering studies on Horthy’s radical rightwing paramilitaries. He argues that their actions cannot be interpreted as a mere reaction to the Hungarian Soviet Republic. He claims that the atrocities they committed were patterned acts perpetrated in a time of perceived social crisis.7

The recent scholarship also highlights the important pre-1914 roots of the violence which broke out in the region. They argue that the social crisis caused by the war (especially in its latter years) catalyzed existing conflicts.8 In the case of the former Hungarian Kingdom for example Miloslav Szabó points out the continuity of anti-Semitic political rhetoric in the territory of today’s Slovakia and its influence from the late nineteenth century to the interwar period.9

Veterans returning from the war who were apolitical or significantly less radical, however, have never really been given comparable attention in the secondary literature. Jakub Benes’s 2017 groundbreaking article on the green cadres took a new approach to the study of the armed groups, active in the hinterland of the Habsburg Empire. According to Benes, “the Green Cadres represented a major rural insurgency, […] which bore the hallmarks of peasant revolts of previous centuries but was also a bid to influence, and participate in, post-imperial national politics.”10 Benes’s study focuses primarily on Moravia, Galicia, and Slavonia and offers only a partial analysis of the events which took place in Hungary. His work has had an inspiring effect on Hungarian historians. New studies by Balázs Ablonczy, Pál Hatos, and Tamás Csiki have been published on the “forgotten revolution” in the Hungarian countryside. They persuasively point out the importance of these (neither red, nor white) peasant movements in the dissolution of the state administration on the local level.11 This essay seeks to contribute to this new trend in the literature. While it challenges the dual explanation of the traditional national historiographies, it aims to provide a better understanding of the acts committed by veterans during the last months of 1918. The first section deals with soldiers who caused upheavals and disorder. It identifies the regions and places in the Hungarian Kingdom where the violence was the most intense and sheds light on the social backgrounds of the perpetrators. The second part investigates the nature of the violence. It aims to go beyond the traditional Bolshevik and national narratives and provide a more nuanced explanation of the motivations of the rioters. The third section strives to add nuance to the picture of a “revolutionary” soldier and examine the role of veterans in the consolidation of the countryside. It focuses on the social backgrounds of the men who joined the different paramilitary formations and considers their possible motivations for doing so.

The Peasant Revolution of November 1918: A Topography of Violence

Beginning in 1917, more and more violent acts were being committed in the hinterland of the Austro-Hungarian Monarchy. Armed groups of deserters were able to bring whole regions under their control, for the most part in Slavonia. This was less true in the territories of the Kingdom of Hungary than it was in Cisleithania, but there were several groups of deserters who were active in the valley of the Vág River and the mountainous western regions of Transylvania. In some cases, rebel soldiers were able to take control of entire city districts. On May 20, 1918, for instance, soldiers who were protesting against orders to go to the front seized and, for a short time, held the train station in the city of Pécs, a regional center in southern Hungary.12

The situation in the territory of the Kingdom of Hungary became critical after the victory of the Aster Revolution on October 31, 1918. Although the regime change led by Count Mihály Károlyi, took place relatively bloodlessly in Budapest, at the news of the collapse of the monarchy, a wave of violence swept through rural areas of the country. Although the violence caused by the returning soldiers and the peasantry was typical of the entire territory of the collapsing Hungarian Kingdom, the situation was the most serious in the northern and eastern parts of the country, which were mainly inhabited by members of the national minorities.13 The upheavals lasted for about two weeks, and by mid-November, consolidation had begun in the central lowlands and larger cities of the country. However, in some areas, the Budapest government failed to hold its grip on power.14 In Transylvania, the Hungarian administrative bodies in the Metaliferi Mountains had lost almost all influence over events, and Árva County (today Orava County, Slovakia) in the north was almost completely lost to the Károlyi government. In these places, especially in Transylvania but also in the northern part of present-day Slovakia and in the eastern part of Transcarpathia, the newly formed national councils took over.15 In many places, the Hungarian administration essentially abandoned the countryside and withdrew to the larger cities, where they tried to unite the remaining law enforcement units and solidify their positions. In Hunyad County (mostly congruent with Hunedoara County today, in Romania), for example, at the beginning of December 1918, all gendarmerie units were summoned Déva (today Deva, Romania), the county seat.16 In Máramaros County (today Maramureş County, Romania), on November 10, all “at-risk” gendarmes were already stationed in Máramarossziget (today Sighetu Marmaşiei, Romania). Similar measures were introduced in the northern part of Upper Hungary. The gendarmes who had been withdrawn from Liptó County (today Liptov County, Slovakia) and Árva County were all sent to Kassa (today, Košice Slovakia), and the soldiers of Trencsén County (today Trenčín County, Slovakia) and Zsolnai County (today Žilina, Slovakia) retreated to the town of Žilina.17 The topography of violence can be observed on a micro level as well. Certain sites in the rural parts of the country were especially dangerous in the first days of November 1918.

These zones of violence can be divided into two groups. The rebels attacked buildings in which there were items valuable enough to merit looting, for the most part food, tobacco, and even money. In November 1918, the railway stations were, from this perspective, the most critical sites. The riots usually started at the train stations and then spread to the rest of the settlements. The railways were prominent sites for the disturbances for two reasons. First, most of the soldiers travelled by train, so suddenly, several hundred or even thousands of hungry, cold, and often armed soldiers would show up at the stations on the major railway lines. Second, there were usually plenty of military buildings near the train stations in which large quantities of munitions were stored.18

In the city of Kolozsvár (today Cluj, Romania), soldiers returning from the front pillaged the warehouses and train cars in the station on November 1, 1918 in search of food, clothing, and alcohol.19 In some cases (especially when the soldiers drastically outnumbered the local authorities), they took the entire station under their complete control. In Tövis (today Teiuş, Romania), a city not far from Kolozsvár, the soldiers simply disarmed the railway personnel and the small number of armed guards at the station and then looted the ammunition and tobacco depots.20

Prisoner-of-war camps which had either been abandoned or which were in the process of being dismantled were also frequent targets of the people responsible for the uprisings and upheaval. Winter was approaching, so what little food remained in these camps was valuable, as was the wood that had been used to build the barracks. In the cities in which there were, for all practical purposes, no armed forces of any consequence, the soldiers even attacked the army barracks. On November 4, for instance, the soldiers in the city of Nagyszeben (today Sibiu, Romania) looted the army barracks, together with many locals. The mob stole not only the stocks in the food depots but also the cash and the government bonds in the regiment coffers.21

In most settlements, the soldiers’ most common targets were the local stores and businesses. For example, on December 11 and 12, 1918, roughly 500 armed soldiers swarmed the streets of the city of Kaposvár (the seat of Somogy County in southern Transdanubia), where they broke into, pillaged, and set fire to many shops. Between 10 and 12 people were killed in the course of the looting.22 In many cases, the looters shouted anti-Semitic slurs. On November 1, at the news of the revolution which had taken place in Budapest, in the small settlement of Tótkomlós in Békés County rioters looted shops owned by Jews and either beat or drove off the merchants they found there. They set many of the houses owned by Jews in the town on fire, and they murdered the Jewish cantor. As it was a market day, the soldiers were joined by peasants from the area, who later chanted the following anti-Semitic taunt in front of the building of the local savings bank: “Down with the Jews, down with the rich!” “Long live the republic!”23 There were similar cases of looting and violence in northern and eastern Hungary as well, for instance in Bars Country (the territory of which today is in Slovakia) and Szilágy County (the territory of which today is in northwestern Romania), and also in Máramaros.24 Although the sources clearly indicate the places where the acts of violence were committed, they are vague with respect to the perpetrators of the these acts. It is not easy to determine the social backgrounds of the rioting soldiers because most of the available sources were written by the representatives of the state authorities. They usually described the rioters as “scum,” “shirkers,” or a mob. Some sources, however, tried to draw distinctions among the particular groups and determine who could be blamed for the violence. They mostly reported that “poor peasants,” “women,” and “soldiers” were the most sizeable groups in the rioting crowds. The inclusion of the first two groups alongside the soldiers was based on earlier perceptions about the allegedly “unreliable,” “irresponsible,” and “hysterical” elements of society. The frequent appearance of soldiers as a distinct group could be explained by two factors. First, due to the lack of civil clothing at the demobilization stations in November 1918, many veterans were still wearing their uniforms even long after they had been demobilized and had returned to their home communities. These people could appear in the eyes of the state authorities as “soldiers,” an easily identifiable group in the crowd. However, in all likelihood, the veterans did not have any separate or special agenda that differed from the goals of the “civilian” peasants of their own local communities.

Second, in many cases, former soldiers were the most radical and seemingly most dangerous perpetrators. Often, their arrival home provoked violent uprisings.25 The chief judge of Zenta (today Senta, Serbia), for example, reported that, until November 2, 1918, in many settlements in Bács-Bodrog County (today’s northern Serbia and southern Hungary), “there was nothing to complain about from the perspective of public order and safety.” When the soldiers arrived the next day, however, they were joined by shirkers, and together, they “rioted with unbridled destructiveness, set fires, looted, and stole.”26 In other settlements, returning soldiers were catalysts for disorder. In Versec (today Vršac, Serbia), for example, after the military train arrived in the station, the people returning from the front immediately began to riot. Once the news spread, they were joined almost immediately by the reservists stationed in the city, as well as the civilian population.27 Unfortunately, we know relatively little about the ethnic backgrounds of the rioting soldiers. From what sources we do have, it seems that members of all the ethnic groups living in the Kingdom of Hungary took part in the instances of upheaval and insurrection. Among the soldiers who looted warehouses and train stations, one finds young men of Hungarian, Romanian, and various Slavic nationalities.28

Fortunately, the sources contain more information about the social backgrounds of the veterans. As in the case of the 1918 German revolution, most of the participating soldiers were older reservists who had spent the second part of the war in the hinterland. We can be more or less sure about this, because at the time of the uprising, the actual frontline soldiers had not yet returned home. These veterans arrived in Hungary only in the middle of November, when the largest wave of violence had subsided.29 One finds further support for this conclusion in the fact that the crisis hotspots did not break out in the western part of the country, where most of the units returning from the front arrived, but rather in the peripheral territories of the country, which even during the pre-war period had been under a less effective state control. The relative proximity of the soldiers to their homes would explain why they were able to take the side of the rebellious peasantry almost immediately and why they apparently identified with the grievances of the people living in the rural communities around them. Soldiers stationed in the hinterland knew firsthand the hardships faced by the civilian population, as they were able to keep in touch with friends and family members much more easily than the soldiers who were stationed on the Italian or the Balkan fronts, whose correspondence was subject to the censors.30

The Nature of the Violence

It is hard to determine the motivations of the thousands of people who participated in the massive uprisings in the autumn of 1918. There are, however, some distinguishable patterns of violence. Sometimes, the people involved in the riots were not motivated simply by the desire to loot or steal. In many cases, they attacked institutions or individuals who, in their eyes, represented the authority of the old state. Some of the violence that accompanied the riots remained symbolic. Portraits of the king, for instance, were destroyed and the officers’ insignias were torn off.31 In the majority of cases, however, they did not content themselves with these kinds of symbolic shows of discontent. Rather, they beat and, in many cases, killed local representatives of the government, including clerks, mayors, and officials.32 According to some estimates, at least one third of the government clerks in the territory of the Kingdom of Hungary were driven from their settlements. This was particularly common in but not restricted to the areas in which the local majority population did not regard itself as Hungarian. According to the reports, in the whole county of Maros-Torda (today Mureş-Torda, Romania), for example, all of the aldermen in the towns and villages were driven from their posts. In the area around the city of Óbecse (today Bečej, Serbia) in the south, all the clerks fled. According to the deputy lieutenants in Gömör and Kishont County (the territory of which lies for the most part in Slovakia today,) in the north, in the early days of November, district clerks, chief magistrates, and in many places even forestry officials had to flee their homes.33

The uprisings among soldiers in the territory of the Kingdom of Hungary followed the choreography of a premodern peasant uprising. The acts committed by the people responsible for the upheaval can thus basically be interpreted as a kind of reactive violence.34 Like the riots carried out in other areas of the collapsing Habsburg Empire, the rebellions were not intended to usher in a new system or lay the foundations for a new world, at least initially, but rather to restore a preexisting moral order, or at least a moral order that was seen in population imagination as having existed.35 According to the peasant population and the soldiers, the local representatives of the state administration had expected them to make unjust and disproportionate sacrifices during the war.

In a November 8 report, the notary of the small town of Újléta in the Great Plain described the vulnerable position of the representatives of the state administration as follows:

When the clerks were implementing the decrees issued by the state, they roused the anger of the people. They did not give wartime aid to anyone whose livelihood was secure because the government had instructed them not to. They could not exempt any individual soldier because they had not been empowered to do so. They could not give clothing to those who were cold or bread to those who were going hungry, because, in some cases, they themselves had none to give, and if they did, they didn’t have much. First, they took the fathers for service, then the sons, and they withdrew military aid from the families of those who had fallen in battle because the state had instructed them to do so.36

In November 1918, news of the revolution in Budapest and the collapse of the monarchy essentially created a chance for the soldiers to settle accounts and seek some form of compensation for the injustices they felt, rightly or wrongly, that they had suffered. In the eyes of the peasantry (and this interpretation is arguably a motif in the traditional narrative crafted by the peasantry concerning oppressors), merchants and others in the world of commerce had also profited unfairly while, in the meantime, the majority had enjoyed none of the benefits of the war and, indeed, had fallen into poverty. In their understandings of the shifting circumstances, in general, the returning soldiers saw much beyond the borders of their own villages or the areas surrounding the towns they called home. Their visions of a just world would have been difficult to incorporate into a political party platform. The courthouses which were tied to the new liberal Budapest government fell prey to looters much as the manors and castles of the representatives of the old order did.37 This sense of justice based on the local assertion of authority also explains why certain institutions and individuals were spared. In the aforementioned settlement of Tótkomlós, for example, all the shops were looted, but the building of the bank where the farmers kept their money went undamaged.38

Many of these attacks were fueled by strong antisemitism. As was true in the case of the pogroms that were committed in the city of Lemberg (today Lviv, Ukraine), there were essentially two motivations behind these atrocities.39 Clearly, some of the attacks were fueled by envy and the desire to steal. In many parts of the country and especially in the smaller settlements, a significant proportion of the people involved in commerce were Jewish. Their shops were simply the most obvious and, often, simply the only target for the looters.40

The ideological antisemitism had deeper roots in the Hungarian countryside, however, especially in the northeastern parts of the country, where most of the atrocities took place. In the late nineteenth and early twentieth century, the new agrarian political parties, which were very popular among the region’s Greek Catholic elite, connected the economic development of the region with Anti-Semitic ideas. They promoted selective anti-Semitism against the “foreign” eastern Jews, who were allegedly “exploiting” the local peasantry and hampering its social, economic, and cultural development. The propagated aim of this Christian agrarian movement was to achieve social justice through the quick and radical redistribution of wealth, which would be taken from the “foreigners” and given to the local peasantry. This idea was often supported by the liberal Hungarian state administration as well.41 These ideas became more and more popular during World War I. The need for “social justice” became particularly acute due to the massive economic hardships experienced by many peasants during the latter years of the war. Thus, it is no surprise that the tensions that were kindled as a consequence of the practice of scapegoating the local Jewish communities for (perceived or real) social injustices became one of the main motivations for the anti-Semitic attacks in November 1918.

In many cases, the peasantry saw the atrocities as acts of just punishment committed against the Jews for their alleged sins and wrongdoings. According to the peasantry, with its conduct both during and after the war, the Jewry of Hungary had broken an unwritten social contract which specified its place in the social hierarchy. For instance, in the case of anti-Semitic atrocities committed by Ruthenian-speaking communities, in many places, news of the alleged arming of the Jewish population was cited as an explanation (or pretext) for the acts of violence (as was true in places in Galicia).

In many settlements, the word “Jew” was understood as a synonym for “rich” or for “war-profiteer,” so the acts of violence committed against Jews were motivated both by “ideological” anti-Semitism (i.e. the identification of Jews as belonging to a different religious community) and by the perception of their economic status. Though admittedly the relationships between these perceptions are often blurred. Seemingly the latter (i.e. the perception of economic difference) was in some cases more important than the former. For instance, in Tótkomlós, all the shops owned by Jewish inhabitants of the town were looted with the exception of one, the Vogel bakery, because it was the place where “bread for the poor man was baked.” The fact that the head of the family was serving on the front at the time (and thus was doing his “fair” share) may also have played a role in the decision of the locals to spare his store.42 In other areas and especially in northeastern Hungary, where many of the local leaders in the public administration were Jewish, many of the members of the Slovak-speaking or Ruthenian-speaking population saw them as representatives of the Hungarian state. In Alsóvis (today Viştea de Jos, Romania), for example, the clerk was made the target of the anti-Semitic attacks, and he was forced by the mob to resign.43 In these areas, anti-Semitism and anti-Magyar sentiment often meant the same thing, as the majority of the Magyar-speaking elite were Jewish.44 In the spring of 1919, the invading Czech legionaries adopted essentially the same logic when they attacked the Jewish citizens of the towns in what had been Upper Hungary.45

In several places, uprisings did indeed break out as national conflicts, and the change of rule was interpreted in this context. In the areas in which the majority population was Hungarian-speaking, this often meant a revival of the anti-Habsburg traditions of 1848. For example, on October 31, 1918, in the city of Várpalota, a detachment assigned to the railway station tore off the insignia on the soldiers’ caps that were signs of the Habsburg House and demanded that the soldiers wear the cockade that was used as the symbol of the Hungarian National Council as a sign of the country’s newly won independence.46 The uprisings took on national connotations primarily in settlements in which the efforts to cultivate a sense of Romanian, Slovak, Serb, or Ruthenian national identity had met with success towards the end of the nineteenth century. In many of these communities, the local national elites were at the forefront of the groups leading the uprisings. They felt that the time had come to seize power from the Hungarian majority.

In Tornova (today Târnova, Romania), near Arad, for example, in early November, two lieutenants of Romanian nationality had the local population swear allegiance to the Romanian National Council in the church. The crowd then allegedly set fire to all the houses in the town which were home to Hungarian speakers and chose individuals from among themselves to form the new prefecture.47 At the town hall of Apahida (today in Romania) near Kolozsvár, a newly arrived Romanian lieutenant proclaimed that “power is in the hands of the Romanians,” and that from that moment on, “Romanian laws apply.” In the second week of November, the Romanian national councils around Balázsfalva (today Blaj, Romania) resolved to replace the “foreign” gendarmerie (which in many places consisted largely of Romanians) with Romanian national guards.48 In Szancsal (today Sâncel, Romania), a lieutenant in the Romanian National Guard took control of the gendarmerie barracks and proclaimed that he does not want to see any gendarmes anymore.”49 The conflicts were especially violent in regions in which the Romanian-Hungarian atrocities dated back to the mid-nineteenth century. For example, in Fehér County the Hungarian elite was in constant fear of an ethnic conflict similar to what had happened in 1848–1849. These interethnic tensions were particularly acute after the unsuccessful Romanian military campaign in the region in 1916.50 The situation was not the same in all regions of Transylvania, however. In many places, for a long time, there were clear signs of cooperation rather than conflict. In many of the settlements in the eastern part of the Hungarian Great Plain which had a Romanian-speaking majority, the atrocities committed by the soldiers did not seem to be motivated by any kind of attachment to national identity.51 In Máramaros, the Romanian-speaking population remained basically peaceful, in contrast with the pro-secession Ruthenian groups. According to one report, “the Ruthenians are already openly saying that they want to belong to Ukraine, and they are calling on Ukrainian troops for help, and then they will finish with the Hungarian population here.”52 However, the situation in the Ruthenian-speaking communities in Transcarpathia was also not uniform. Here too, Ukrainian nationalist ideas were stronger among the elites, especially in the more isolated region around the town of Kőrősmező (today Yasinia, Ukraine).

In the southern parts of Hungary, the riots and upheaval were mainly caused by soldiers from the rapidly disintegrating Balkan army, which was stationed nearby. Here too, the crisis was dire, as succinctly put in a telephone report received by the Ministry of Defense from Nagybecskerek (today Zrenjanin, Serbia): “The situation is as bad as it could be.”53 There were relatively few reports of nationalistic uprisings in the southern region, though reports of these kinds of disturbances became more frequent with the arrival of the Serb military forces. In Szabadka (today Subotica, Serbia), for example, the day before these forces arrived in the city, members of the local Slavic communities in the area stormed the army barracks.54

Serious atrocities took place almost everywhere in Upper Hungary, though there was some variation from county to county and settlement to settlement. The city of Rózsahegy (today Ružomberok, Slovakia), for instance, which according to the reports was the centre of the Slovak national movement, was in a state of complete disarray (at least according to the reports). In Alsókubin (today Dolný Kubín, Slovakia), the soldiers forced the local authorities to fly the Slovak national flag on the town hall, and in Bártfa (today Bardejov, Slovakia), the returning soldiers marched down the main street shouting, “Long live freedom! Long live Slovakia!” In contrast, according to the reports from Liptószentmiklós (today Liptovský Mikuláš, Slovakia), the town was calm, though it was also home to a large Slovak-speaking majority.55

In the case of Upper Hungary, however, it seems clear that in most places, the arrival of units from the surrounding countries gave new impetus to the various national movements, and the Hungarian administration only vanished completely after the occupying troops had arrived in the towns and cities. In the case of the aforementioned Árva County, it was the arrival of Polish units that strengthened the local nationalist efforts, while in the northwestern region, it was the Czech units slowly coming across the border from Moravia who gave further momentum to the Slovak nationalist cause. In both cases, these units were essentially what remained of the earlier Habsburg reserve formations, which hardly constituted a significant military force, but these units often enjoyed the support of and were joined by members the national guard forces, who for the most part were Slovak. This took place, for instance, on November 10 in Nagybiccse (today Bytča, Slovakia) in Trencsén County.56 The people who led the attacks in Upper Hungary usually targeted clerks and Hungarian civil servants. 52 clerks fled Pozsony County, the territory around Bratislava alone.57

Consolidation and Mobilization: The Creation of the Paramilitary Units

Soldiers were not only the vanguard of the uprising but also contributed to the quick consolidation of power in the countryside. These Austro-Hungarian veterans constituted the bulk of the countless new paramilitary groups formed in the region in the autumn of 1918. However, these were not always radical rightwing paramilitary groups.58 Law enforcement agencies, labor unions, landowners, and even the leaders of large factories tried to hire as many people as possible to protect themselves from the people causing the upheavals. These spontaneously formed units often clashed with one another and committed bloody atrocities. In Jósikafalva (today Beliş, Romania), not far from Kolozsvár, for example, a paramilitary squad that protected the manor house of local landowner János Urmánczy from looting staged a serious massacre and slaughtered Romanian peasants. A paramilitary group recruited by Urmánczy’s brother killed at least 20 to 30 people, but probably as many as 90. All this put the Károlyi government, which was negotiating with the Romanian delegates at the time, in a very difficult situation.59

The Budapest government quickly sensed that these groups were threatening its authority in the collapsing country, and it therefore tried to regulate the spontaneously formed paramilitary units as quickly as possible and restore its own monopoly on the use of force. On November 12, 1918, the so-called National Guard was established, under the umbrella of which most of the internal security policing units were to fall.60 The organization of national guard units proved surprisingly successful. At the beginning of December, a total of 100,000 people served in some such paramilitary unit in the Kingdom of Hungary.61 One has a sense of the importance of this force if one compares this number with the number of soldiers who were serving in the regular Hungarian army at the time, which was barely 37,000. Even the National Army under Miklós Horthy, who would soon assume control of Hungary, had less than 100,000 soldiers in its ranks. Indeed, only the Red Army organized by the short-lived Soviet Republic under Béla Kun was able to mobilize more soldiers (between 120,000 and 200,000).62

There were significant regional differences, however, within the territory of the Kingdom of Hungary. As a proportion of the local population, most national guard units were formed in the Great Plain and the central part of the country. These were usually counties which had Hungarian majorities and which were relatively close to the capital. Separate Romanian, Saxon, and Hungarian national guard forces were established in Transylvania. According to reports, at the end of November, 6,616 Hungarian national guards were stationed in the region, along with roughly the same number of Saxons and about 3,700 Romanian national guards. The number of the latter may have been higher, but in all likelihood some of the Romanian commanders no longer bothered to report these soldiers to the Hungarian authorities. Most of the Hungarian and Saxon national guards served in the larger cities, while the Romanian units tended to hold the rural areas under their control.63

For the most part, mobilization was carried out not by the official state bodies but by the municipalities, in cooperation with the officers of the remaining local military formations. In early November 1918, several calls were issued to the local press. The population was called on to defend “law and order.” An article in Dunántúl (Transdanubia), a journal published out of Pécs, informed its readership that, in order to ensure internal order and peace, the establishment of a civil guard and a national guard had been ordered in all villages, because the region was endangered by “neighbouring Slavonian-Croatian gangs of rioters.”64 These kinds of claims were not new. Before 1914, the middle class had offered similar explanations for the establishment of its shooting associations, which were allegedly founded in order to protect “law and order.”65 In 1918, law enforcement guards were usually recruited in public buildings, mostly the town hall but also in the police and gendarmerie barracks. In some places, enthusiastic military officers went out into the streets and tried to gather people. In Arad (today in Romania), people were recruited by officers in cars in front of the city cafés, where the officers present held patriotic speeches.66

Rural National Guard units were usually led by reserve military officers or career soldiers who had already served somewhere in the hinterland by the autumn of 1918. Unfortunately, we have very little information concerning the individuals who joined the National Guard. Based on the few surviving sources, most of the members seem to have had similar social backgrounds to the rioters. They were older servicemen, who had served in reserve formations at the end of World War I. Many of them were already in the hinterland in the early days of November 1918.67

The mobilization of the formations established in early November 1918 followed two patterns. Most of the paramilitary units were essentially mobilized by the old elite in an attempt to consolidate their positions.68 In the more prominent cities, they were created by renaming the replacement formations (Ersatzbattalion) of the old regiments. In Nyitra (today Nitra, Slovakia), for example, the National Guard detachments were formed out of what remained of the 13th and 62nd infantry regiments. In many cases, the national guard units in smaller settlements were established by renaming some kind of gendarmerie or police formation or even a volunteer fire brigade.69 These units used the existing gendarmerie and police infrastructure. In larger settlements, national guards were usually given lodgings in empty military barracks, while in smaller settlements, they were housed in public schools or other buildings previously used for military purposes. They then set out from these locations to patrol the area. Police and gendarmerie headquarters were also responsible for providing them with food and equipment. At the head of the emerging national guard units, one usually found professional soldiers or, in many cases, reserve officers (or in the case of villages, non-commissioned officers).70

In larger settlements, the bulk of the national guard forces consisted of university and high school students. In Kolozsvár, a volunteer corps of university students was formed in the military barracks under the leadership of former Habsburg and Hungarian officers living in the city.71 In other settlements, many of the people who served in the national guard units were students in local high schools. In Nagyvárad (today Oradea, Romania), for example, the oldest grades of the local military school disarmed soldiers arriving at the train station in the city.72 The mobilization of students followed patterns which had existed already at the outbreak of World War I. As had happened in 1914, the students, under the guidance of their teachers, marched into the nearby barracks and began to perform auxiliary services.73 It is thus hardly surprising that, in November 1918, when a crisis began to break out in the hinterland because of the soldiers returning from the front, the mobilization of students was a matter of course for both schools and the civilian authorities.

However, in November 1918, some of the paramilitary units that were formed were not created under the control of the elite from the Dualist Era. In many places in the areas with Hungarian-speaking majorities, returning soldiers replaced the local gendarmerie and created new law enforcement formations. In the village of Guta (today Kolárovo, Slovakia), for example, the returning soldiers completely took over the civilian administration, and they also selected the leaders of the National Council from among themselves.74

The role of soldiers in the change of elites was most spectacular in the peripheral areas of the country. New Romanian national guards were formed in certain areas of Transylvania, mainly in the areas with Romanian-speaking majorities. The sources suggest that most of these units were made up of returning veterans, and the equipment and clothing they used had been taken from the military warehouses they had seized.75 Romanian national guard units were usually led by members of the local Romanian elite, former Austro-Hungarian officers of Romanian nationality. In Szászváros (today Orăştie, Romania), for example, under the command of a lieutenant colonel of Romanian nationality, the members of the national guard took supplies from the barracks of the former 82nd Infantry Regiment and then set out and tried to disarm the Hungarian gendarmes. Initially, the Károlyi government supported and oversaw the establishment of the Romanian National Guard. After a while, however, most of these units only took instructions from the Romanian National Council. However, this did not mean that each national guard followed exclusively and consistently the instructions of its own political leadership.76 On November 21, 1918, in Dés (today Dej, Romania), in the central part of Transylvania, for example, a mixed Romanian-Hungarian detachment disarmed soldiers who were outraged because of their pay.77 In larger cities such as Nagyszeben, a Romanian national guard numbering 1,000 men, a Saxon national guard of 700 men, and a Hungarian national guard of 120 men were present at the same time.78

On November 16, 1918, the Hungarian government tried to reach an agreement with the Slovak National Council to maintain order. The Slovak national guard forces would have had authority over the northernmost counties, while the Hungarian national guards would have been responsible for what today is southern Slovakia. It was also agreed that Hungarian-speaking officers would serve in the Slovak national guard forces and Slovak-speaking officers would serve in the Hungarian national guard forces in order to ensure that they would be able to quell conflicts that might arise in linguistically mixed areas.79

In Transcarpathia, the region which at the time was in northeastern Hungary, the Ruthenian elite was divided. In the area around the city of Ungvár (today Uzhhorod, Ukraine), the majority accepted the plans sent from Budapest concerning the creation of an autonomous region, while a smaller group supported accession to Czechoslovakia. However, in the areas furthest from Budapest, around Máramaros, the returning soldiers, like some of their Ukrainian comrades in Galicia, established a short-lived independent state.80 At the beginning of January 1919, under the leadership of Stepan Klochurak, a 23-year-old former ensign, the independent Hucul Republic was proclaimed in Kőrősmező. Ukrainian veterans formed their own guard forces, which drove off the Hungarian national guard forces in the region. Klochurak’s ultimate goal was to join Ukraine, but the state was destroyed by invading Romanian troops in the summer of 1919.81

Perhaps the most unusual self-defence force that was created in the Kingdom of Hungary in the turmoil which came in the wake of the war was the so-called Jewish Volunteer Squadron. The squadron was founded by Adolf Strausz, who learned about the anti-Semitic atrocities which were being committed against Jews in rural parts of the country in early November. Strausz was a leading figure in the Hungarian Zionist movement, and he used his contacts to recruit reserve officers and students from the Maccabean associations to the corps. The unit, later renamed the Volunteer Police Squadron, was stationed in Budapest under the command of a Zionist engineer and captain in reserve Ármin Beregi.82 According to estimates which seem inflated, by the time it was dissolved in February 1919, it numbered roughly 2,000 soldiers, including many Christians.83

The different ethnic elites were not the only groups to establish new law enforcement formations. Representatives of the Social Democratic Party, which was gathering strength, also did. After the victory of the Aster Revolution, in the cities, the Social Democratic Party created the largest law enforcement units. In many settlements, union members formed their own self-defence units under the leadership of local heads of the Social Democratic Party. In certain working districts of Budapest and in the industrial zones of Kispest and Újpest, these units were essentially the only forces engaged in and responsible for law enforcement. Here, local union leaders simply dismantled the factory guard forces, which consisted for the most part of older soldiers who served in the reserve battalions, took their weapons, and used them to arm their own men. Thus, it is not surprising that in many places the internal hierarchy of the new workers’ guard forces was almost identical to that of the unions in the factories.84 Because they could use the existing organizational structure which had been put in place to enable workers to represent their interests, these units of workers were able to mobilize much more rapidly and efficiently than other “normal” national guard forces.

The workers played a key role in maintaining order not only in Budapest, but also in many other, smaller cities which had major industrial parks. In Debrecen, for example, the largest and most reliable law enforcement force consisted of employees who worked for the national railway.85 In some large industrial centers, workers almost completely took power from the municipalities. Their best-known organization was the Zsilvölgy National Council in Transylvania, in the mining area around the city of Petrozsény (today Petroşani, Romania). In early November 1918, this body quickly put power into the hands of the local Social Democratic Party.86 According to their report, they almost immediately dismissed the military units supervising the mines, but the council of local workers and the civilian authorities were able to maintain order.

However, the important role of trade unions in setting up law enforcement units was only rarely an attempt at some kind of revolutionary takeover. In most place, the workers’ units were able to work relatively well with local law enforcement. The government leaders had few reliable soldiers on whom they could depend in the hinterland, so they often gladly entrusted the Social Democrats with the task of securing the industrial parks. In Kolozs County (today Cluj County, Romania), the military headquarters directly called on the “socialist workers” to form their own guard units and protect their factories from the looting crowd.87 Even in the aforementioned city of Petrozsény, which was the settlement which was most at the tipping point of revolution, the three-person law enforcement patrols were assembled to include one member of the old gendarmerie, one “civilian” national guardsman, and one trade union worker.88

One might well ask why the campaigns to mobilize soldiers were so successful, to which one obvious reply would be that the establishment of self-defence units was a natural and foreseeable reaction to the waves of violence. However, the situation was more complex than this answer might suggest. No clear link can be established between the extent of the violence and the effectiveness of mobilization. The largest number of paramilitary formations were not necessarily formed in the places the riots were most destructive. As Mark Jones has already shown based on the example of Germany, violent acts in given settlements are not a precondition for intensive mobilization by public authorities. If senior officials perceive themselves or their communities as facing potential threats (a perception which is usually created by rumors circulating in the press), this perception itself is more than enough to prompt mobilization campaigns.89 There was no shortage of these kinds of rumors in the press in Hungary in November 1918. On the contrary, the newspapers contained innumerable reports of murders and robberies, not to mention claims concerning prisoners of war who were allegedly eager to take revenge.90

Alongside the fear of looters, very material considerations may also have played a significant role in the successful mobilization. In early November, the government and several municipalities offered people who were willing to serve high daily wages, which must have been particularly appealing, given the widespread postwar unemployment. It is thus hardly surprising that, when there were pay-cuts, the Ministry of Defence received numerous reports concerning frustrated guardsmen who wanted to leave the force.91

The opportunity to join the National Guard may also have been appealing simply because most of the soldiers found themselves in an unusual, precarious, and transitional situation at the end of the war. They had been decommissioned, and the process of integrating these young men back into traditional (mostly peasant) society after a period during which they had been severed from their roots for several years did not seem simple. As Tamás Csíki has suggested, the returning soldiers found themselves in a liminal position for a long time.92 In some ways, the national guard forces offered an institutional framework for this transitional situation. The young men who served in the guard forces were able to preserve their military identities and function as important members of the community again.

There may have been one other important factor behind the successful mobilization of war veterans in these paramilitary formations. As the monarchy was disintegrating, local authorities were able to reach out to civilian institutions in the hinterland, such as schools and trade unions, which had a significant number of members suitable for military service. At a moment at which the state was essentially collapsing, these institutions played a major role in shaping the daily lives of ordinary people. In the big cities, this phenomenon was most visible in the case of the Social Democratic unions. In the second half of the war, with the formation of the so-called Beschwerdekomissions, the unions began to exert a decisive influence in employment services, and they often had the final say in who would remain on the frontlines and who would be able to return home. Not surprisingly, they generally showed a bias, in their decisions, for the interests of active union members. Thus, there was rapid growth in the number of organizations which represented different interest groups, and quite understandably, the people who were exempted from service were even more closely linked to their own leaders, as they had been “saved” from service on the frontlines. The leaders of the labor unions, furthermore, had already gained considerable practical knowledge, in the course of the organization of protests before the war, of how to mobilize the members of the unions.93

In rural areas, teachers and landlords usually played the leading roles in the organization of law enforcement units. They were individuals who already had prominent roles in their communities, so it was almost taken for granted that they would be entrusted with the task of leading the various self-defence forces. Furthermore, by organizing the law-enforcement units, they were able to strengthen their positions within their communities, which was particularly important at a moment which was bearing witness to the collapse of the state. This is essentially what took place in the multinational areas as well. The local (and this was true mostly in the case of Transylvania) Romanian elite may have been motivated by a desire to create some form of armed forces as quickly as possible to serve in the place of the Hungarian gendarmes, who had been driven off. This desire to create a new armed force in some cases overrode national or ethnic considerations, as even in several settlements in which gendarmes themselves were Romanians, the gendarmerie was still expelled.94

Conclusion: Soldiers in the Revolution: Uprising and Consolidation

The massive unrest in Hungary caused largely by the returning war veterans in November 1918 fits well into the general trends of the region history in the wake of the war. Like the population of the former Habsburg and Romanov Empires, people living in the territory of the collapsing Hungarian Kingdom experienced a massive wave of violence. As was the case in Slavonia or Moravia, the riots were particularly violent in the rural, distant, mountainous regions. Here, the power of the state had often been very weak before 1914, and the local administration was further weakened in the last years of the war. The social backgrounds of the perpetrators and the victims of the violence also fit well into the general trends of the region. The riots were mostly led by Austro-Hungarian veterans who, upon having returned to their home communities, became the vanguards of the local peasant movements. Unlike the Green Cadre in Slavonia and Moravia, however, these people were not deserters. They were mostly stationed in the reserve units in the hinterland and only rioted after news arrived of the collapse of the Austro-Hungarian state.

The nature of the violence in Hungary is also comparable to the acts of violence in other areas of the region. The peasant-soldiers attacked the representatives of the state and the members of the local economic and political elite. In the countryside, these attacks were mostly the results of entangled sociocultural and ethnic tensions. It would be misleading, however, simply to characterize the series of uprisings that broke out in Hungary in November 1918 as stages in either a socialist or a national revolution. For the most part, the instances of violence seem to share affinities with premodern peasant uprisings. The soldiers and peasants who committed the acts of violence were not bound by any shared ideology, nor did they have leaders who they all accepted. Essentially, the acts were motivated by the desire to address social injustices, perceived and real, that had developed during World War I. The goals of those who took part in the uprisings generally concerning local issues and grievances, and the participants did not really articulate national political demands. In this respect, there were no major differences between the areas inhabited by Hungarian speakers on the one hand and members of the national minorities on the other. In some regions, however, the national and social dividing lines coincided, and here, insurgents often expressed their demands using the linguistic toolchest of nationalism or even anti-Semitism. The events which took place in Hungary did not differ significantly from the events which were unfolding in other countries in Central and Eastern Europe. The acts committed by the green cadres in Galicia, Slavonia, and Moravia were similarly motivated by a desire to exact (perceived) justice on the local level. The anti-Semitic nature of the attacks was not unique either, and similar events took place in Galicia in a much bloodier form.95

The intensity of the violence depend often but not exclusively on the pre-war political developments. As has been pointed out in the recent literature concerning other cases of the region, there had long been tensions, and the hardships of war aggravated these tensions. This was most clear in the case of Transylvania, where ethnic conflicts dated back to 1848–1849 and had been reinforced by the Romanian campaign of 1916. In northern Hungary, anti-Semitic attitudes and practices had long been part of the culture of the local elites, as had the idea of taking the allegedly undeserved wealth of the Jews and redistributing it among the peasants.

Despite the many similarities, the Hungarian case has some unique characteristics. In comparison with the acts committed by the Green Cadres, the riots in Hungary in November 1918 had a much smaller impact on the country’s interwar politics. In Slavonia, some of the leaders later became legendary figures of the local folklore, and they were never really integrated into the political platforms of the newly emerging nation-states.96 In contrast, the uprising which took place in Hungary in November 1918 was more or less forgotten. There are two main reasons for this. First, while the Green Cadres ruled for months or years, in Hungary, the interim “stateless” period lasted only a few weeks. In the central regions of the Carpathian basin, the Hungarian state was able to restore its rule very soon, while in the peripheral areas, the advancing Romanian, Serb, and Czechoslovak armies had taken control by the end of 1918 at the latest. These new nation-states began to organize their public administration and suppressed any kind of uprising. Second, in Hungary, a powerful “culture of defeat” developed immediately after the Treaty of Trianon was signed in 1920. The story of a spontaneous uprising led by the “‘glorious” soldiers did not harmonize well with the stab-in-the-back narrative propagated by the interwar Hungarian regime.

The Hungarian case also demonstrated clearly that the return of millions of war veterans could contribute, admittedly, to the destruction of state power, but could also further the consolidation of state power. The local elite almost immediately perceived the situation as a deep social crisis, and it began to organize self-defense forces consisting of local soldiers. The general fear of a Bolshevik-type revolution and the collapse of the social order became a powerful mobilization tool in the hands of institutions, municipalities, and trade unions. They were able to recruit large numbers of law enforcement units in response to the wave of violence. The mobilization campaigns were so successful that there were far more people serving in the national guard forces that had been created all over Hungary by November 1918 than later served in either the so-called white or red guards put together. And the local elites had done little more, in order to assemble these forces, than use the same tools that they had used in order to mobilize the civilian population in 1914. This was all part of a larger European trend. In other parts and provinces of the Austro-Hungarian Monarchy, large numbers of similar law enforcement units were created, building in many cases on the existing Bürgercorps.97 In the spring of 1919, there were roughly one million people serving in the so-called Einwohnerwehren, which were locally organized self-defence militias in Germany—far more than in the far-right Freikorps.98 In the territory of the disintegrating Kingdom of Hungary, non-Hungarian elites also sought to establish paramilitary units. These formations were also usually built on the former k. u. k. military units and the memberships of nationalist associations. The involvement of high school, university and college students was not unique at all. The Polish volunteer army recruited many young boys who were college and university students. The Burschenschaft students also participated in the Kärtner Abwehrkampf in massive numbers. They also followed the patterns of mobilization established during the first years of the war. Surprisingly, the social-democratic paramilitaries also consisted of members of existing communities, mostly the local trade union cells. Similar developments can be observed in the Ruhr region as well.99

In Hungary, however, many of these local elites belonged to the non-Magyar ethnic groups. They began to form new local guards which represented new national ideas and visions of the future. These were mostly established in the regions in which the local Slavic and Romanian nation-building efforts were powerful enough to gain traction and the Hungarian state administration was weak.

Due to the heterogeneous nature of these units and the rather conservative approach of their mobilization, the general fear of revolution does not necessarily seem to have led to the establishment of radical paramilitary groups. The violent ultra-masculine communities described by Béla Bodo fit into this trend, but they constituted a minority of the many paramilitary groups and formations established in this period. In many cases, these forces were led by moderate political forces and became tools for political consolidation.

In this sense, the acts committed by war veterans in the last months of 1918 contributed to the further collapse of the state but at the same time also reinforced some of its structures. These acts, including both violence and the quick mobilization was largely influenced by the ideological, economic, and social circumstances which had prevailed before the war. They not only mark the end of an era but also showed remarkable continuity on an institutional and personal level, especially in the more rural regions of the country.

Archival Sources

Hadtörténelmi Levéltár, Budapest [Military History Archives] (HL)

Polgári demokratikus forradalom katonai iratanyaga [Military papers of the Democratic Revolution] (HL P. d. f.)

Magyarországi Tanácsköztársaság katonai iratai [Military papers of the Hungarian Council’s Republic] (HL MTK)

Magyar Nemzeti Levéltár Országos Levéltára [Hungarian National Archive, State Archive] (MNL OL) 

K 803. 1918–1919. évi kormányhatóságok táviratgyűjteménye (1918–1919) [Telegramm collection of the state administiration 1918–1919]

Magyar Nemzeti Levéltár Veszprém Megyei Levéltára [Hungarian National Archive, Veszprém County Archive] (MNL VeML)

XIV. Kratochwill Károly hadosztályparancsnok iratai [Papers of Károly Kratochwill]

Országos Széchényi Könyvtár, Kéziratgyűjtemény [National Széchényi Library, Manuscript Collection] (OSZKK)

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Romsics, Ignác, ed. Dokumentumok az 1918/19-es forradalmak Duna-Tisza közi történetéhez [Documents of the history of the 1918/1919 revolutions in the Danube-Tisza Interfluve]. A Bács-Kiskun Megyei Levéltár kiadványai 3. Kecskemét: Bács-Kiskun Megyei Levéltár, 1976.

Romsics, Ignác. Erdély elvesztése, 1918–1947 [Loosing Transylvania 1918–1947]. Budapest: Helikon, 2018.

Szabó, Miloslav. “’Because Words Are Not Deeds’: Antisemitic Practice and Nationality Policies in Upper Hungary around 1900.” Quest : Issues in Contemporary Jewish History, no. 3 (2012): 164–181. doi: 10.48248/issn.2037-741X/773.

Szincsok, György, ed. Tótkomlós története és néprajza: a település alapításának 250. évfordulója tiszteletére [The history and ethnography of Tótkomlós: Commemorating the 250 anniversary of the town’s foundation]. Vol. 1. Tótkomlós: Tótkomlós Város Önkormányzata, 1996.

Tilly, Charles, Louise A. Tilly, and Richard H. Tilly. The Rebellious Century: 1830–1930. Cambridge: Harvard University Press, 1975.

Tóth, Sándor, and Antal Józsa, eds. Magyarország hadtörténete [The military history of Hungary]. 2 vols. Budapest: Zrínyi Kiadó, 1985.

Újvári, Péter, ed. Magyar zsidó lexikon [Hungarian Jewish encyclopaedia]. Budapest: Pallas, 1929.

Varga, Bálint. The Monumental Nation: Magyar Nationalism and Symbolic Politics in Fin-de-Siècle Hungary. 1st ed. Austrian and Habsburg Studies 20. New York: Berghahn Books, 2016.

Varga, Lajos. Háború, forradalom, szociáldemokrácia Magyarországon, 1914. július–1919. március [War, revolution, social democracy in Hungary July 1914–March 1919]. Budapest: Napvilág, 2010.

 

1 HL P. d. f.) B/10. d. 4039. 37.

2 Farkas, Katonai összeomlás, 285–305; 420–21.

3 See for instance, Matichescu, The Logic of History against the Vienna Diktat, 14 and Pascu, The Making of the Romanian Unitary National State 1918, 218–21.

4 Hronský, The Struggle for Slovakia and the Treaty of Trianon. 67–69.

5 Iancu, The Ruling Council, 23.

6 See for example the studies of the Nepostrans ERC research group: Egry, “Negotiating Post-Imperial Transitions: Local Societies and Nationalizing States in East Central Europe”; Egry, “Fallen between Two Stools?’; Kosi, “The Imagined Slovene Nation and Local Categories of Identification”; Jeličić, “To Ensure Normal Administrative Order, and for the Population’s Greater Comfort?”

7 Bodó, The White Terror.

8 Böhler et al., Legacies of Violence, 3–5.

9 Szabó, “Because Words Are Not Deeds,” 170–77.

10 Beneš, “The Green Cadres and the Collapse of Austria-Hungary in 1918,” 208.

11 See for instance Hatos, Az Elátkozott Köztársaság; Csíki, “A parasztság ‘forradalma’ 1918-ban”; Ablonczy, Ismeretlen Trianon.

12 Plaschka et al., Innere Front, 97.

13 HL P. d. f. B/4. d. 3611. 249.

14 HL P. d. f. B/4. d. 3610. 190.; B/8. d. 3905. 135.

15 Ablonczy, Ismeretlen Trianon, 157–58. In the case of Transylvania see HL P. d. f. B/4. d. 3625. 975.

16 MNL VeML, XIV. 9. d. 253.

17 MNL (OL, K 803 PTI 606. f. 5. 67. d. 5/4. ö. e. II. k. 20; 5/5. ö. e. I. k. 10, 12–13.

18 Glaise von Horstenau, Österreich-Ungarns letzter Krieg, 762–63.

19 MNL OL K 803 PTI 606. f. 2. Telegrams of military bodies. 13. d. 2/13 ő. e. 6.

20 MNL OL K 803 PTI 606. f. 5. 67. d 1/1 ő. e. I. k. 1.

21 MNL OL K 803. PTI 606. f. 5. 67. d. 5/6 ő. e. 27.

22 HL P. d. f. B/4. d. 3571. 114, 119, 120, and Hatos, Az Elátkozott Köztársaság, 177.

23 Szincsok, Tótkomlós története és néprajza, 190–91; Balogh, A tótkomlósi zsidók története, 29.

24 HL P. d. f. B/2. d. 3421. 67; 2423. 132.

25 Csíki, “A parasztság ‘forradalma’ 1918-ban,” 136–37.

26 HL P. d. f. B/2. d. 3431. 81.

27 HL P.d.f. B/3. d. 3491. 253.

28 MNL OL K 803 PTI 606. f. 5. 67. d. 1/1. ö. e. I. k. 1.

29 Révész, Nem akartak katonát látni?, 60.

30 HL P. d. f. B/6. d. 3823. 332. On the maintenance of contacts among soldiers, see Hanák, “Vox Populi: Intercepted Letters in the First World War.”

31 MNL OL K 803 PTI 606. f. 5. 67. d. 5/7 ő. e. 1–4; HL P. d. f. B/2. d. 3430. 283.

32 MNL OL K 803 PTI 606. f. 5. 67. d. 1/1. ő. e. I. k. 58.

33 HL P. d. f. B/2. d. 3450. 785; HL P. d. f. B/2. d. 3421. 32. 66. 67; Hatos, Az elátkozott köztársaság, 180.

34 On the difference between reactive and proactive violence, see Tilly et al., The Rebellious Century.

35 On the use of the theory of the moral economy of violence, see Hagen, “The Moral Economy of Ethnic Violence,” 217; Beneš, “The Green Cadres and the Collapse of Austria-Hungary in 1918,” 224.

36 HL P. d. f. B/6. d. 3711. 101.

37 Hatos, Az elátkozott köztársaság, 175.

38 Szincsok, Tótkomlós története és néprajza, 190–91.

39 Hagen, ‘The Moral Economy of Ethnic Violence,” 219.

40 HL P. d. f. B/2. d. 3421. 67; 2423. 132.

41 Szabó, “Because Words Are Not Deeds,” 170–77.

42 Balogh, A tótkomlósi zsidók története, 30.

43 HL P. d. f. B/4. d. 3616. 341.

44 Hatos, Az elátkozott köztársaság, 182–84. On the role of the local Jewry in Hungarian nation building in northern Hungary on the basis of the examples of Nyitra and Ungvár, see Varga, The Monumental Nation.

45 Konrád, “Two Post-War Paths,” 11.

46 HL P. d. f. B/2. d. 3430. 283. The tradition of the 1848 revolution was an important tool of political legitimation for the Károlyi government. See Hatos, Az elátkozott köztársaság, 244–45.

47 HL P. d. f. B/4. d. 3605. 16.

48 MNL OL K 803 PTI 606. f. 5. 67. d. 1/1. ő. e. II. k. 70, 73.

49 MNL OL K 803 PTI 606. f. 5. 67. d. 1/1. ő. e. II. k. 64. 65. 66. 72.

50 Ablonczy, “Sérelem, jogfolytonosság, frusztráció.”

51 Romsics, Erdély elvesztése, 1918–1947, 58.

52 HL P. d. f. B/2. d. 3423. 132.

53 HL P. d. f. B/2. d. 3424. 144.

54 HL P. d. f. B/19. d. 4661. 53–54.

55 Hronský, The Struggle for Slovakia and the Treaty of Trianon, 68; HL P. d. f. B/2. d. 3424. 136. On Slovak national identity, see Nurmi, Slovakia, a Playground for Nationalism and National Identity.

56 Fogarassy, “Felvidéki gerillaharcok a Károlyi-kormány idején,” 226.

57 Hronský, The Struggle for Slovakia and the Treaty of Trianon, 70.

58 HL P. d. f. B/8. d. 3905. 135; Romsics, Dokumentumok az 1918/19-es forradalmak Duna-Tisza közi történetéhez, 170, 173–74.

59 Romsics, Erdély elvesztése, 1918–1947, 101–2. OSZKK, 301. f. 31. d. Emlékirat-töredék 1918 őszéről, 15–17.

60 Tóth and Józsa, Magyarország hadtörténete, 196.

61 HL P. d. f. B/4. d. 3620. 477; B/5. d. 3640. 9.

62 Bodo, “The White Terror in Hungary, 1919–1921,” 139; Révész, Nem akartak katonát látni, 197.

63 HL P. d. f. B/4. d. 3639. 1028.

64 “A helyzet Délbaranyában.” Dunántúl, November 8, 1918, 2.

65 Morelon, “Respectable Citizens,” 12.

66 “Vigyázzunk Arad népére!” Arad és Vidéke, November 2, 1918, 3.

67 HL P. d. f. B/2. d. 3449. 726–27.

68 Morelon, “Respectable Citizens,” 22.

69 HL P. d. f. B/4. d. 3631. 798; HL P. d. f. B/3. d. 3480. 1.

70 HL P. d. f. B/2. d. 3444. 581–82; MNL VeML XIV. Kratochwill Károly hadosztályparancsnok iratai 9. d. László Bartha.

71 OSZKK, 301.f. 31. d, 15–17. 

72 MNL VeML XIV. Kratochwill Károly hadosztályparancsnok iratai 9. d. Egy tatabányai bányatisztviselő visszaemlékezései, 217.

HL P. d. f. B/4. d. 3631. 799.

73 See for instance Loinig, “Patriotismus und Opfersinn Die Schulen Niederösterreichs im Ersten Weltkrieg.”

74 HL P. d. f. B/2. d. 3421. 69

75 HL P. d. f. B/1. d. 3411. 57.

76 HL P. d. f. B/5. d. 3665. 829.; HL P. d. f. B/4. d. 3586. 11. 19; Pascu, The Making of the Romanian Unitary National State 1918, 217.

77 MNL OL K 803 PTI 606. f. 5. 67. d. 1/1. ő. e. II. k. 90.

78 HL P. d. f. B/2. d. 3478. 750.

79 HL P. d. f. B/1. d. 3411. 52.; B/5. d. 3665. 835.

80 Beneš, “The Green Cadres and the Collapse of Austria-Hungary in 1918,” 236–37.

81 Ablonczy, Ismeretlen Trianon, 157–58.

82 Újvári, Magyar zsidó lexikon.

83 Róbert, Egyenlő jog a hősi halálra, 106–7; Komoróczy, A zsidók története Magyarországon, 350–51; Hatos and Novák, Between Minority and Majority, 79–80.

84 HL MTK 1218. Vöröskatona visszaemlékezések 128. d. 33. Kaiser Nándor.

85 HL P. d. f. B/4. d. 3637. 969; “Védjük meg Aradot!,” Arad és Vidéke, November 2, 1918, 1.

86 Romsics, Erdély elvesztése, 1918–1947, 98.

87 MNL OL K 803 PTI 606. f 2. 5. d. 2/1 ő. e. I. k. 1.

88 MNL OL K 440 PTI 607 f. 3. d 38. ő. e. 4. Minutes of the Petrozsény National Council.

89 Jones, Am Anfang war Gewalt, 336.

90 HL P. d. f. B/5. d. 3647. 244.

91 HL P. d. f. B/2. d. 3450. 769–770.

92 Csíki, “A parasztság ‘forradalma’ 1918-ban,” 139, 146.

93 Varga, Háború, forradalom, szociáldemokrácia Magyarországon, 28–38; Bódy, “Szociálpolitika és szociál­demokrácia Magyarországon az I. világháború idején,” 1459–60.

94 Romsics, Erdély elvesztése, 122.

95 Hagen, “The Moral Economy of Ethnic Violence,” 218.

96 Beneš, “The Green Cadres and the Collapse of Austria-Hungary in 1918,” 221.

97 Morelon, “Respectable Citizens,” 22–23.

98 Bergien, “Paramilitary Volunteers for Weimar Germany’s ‘Wehrhaftmachung’,” 191–92; Böhler, Civil War in Central Europe, 1918–1921, 132.

99 Bergien, “Paramilitary Volunteers for Weimar Germany’s ‘Wehrhaftmachung’”; “Paramilitary Volunteers for Weimar Germany’s ‘Wehrhaftmachung’”; Révész, “For the ‘Freedom and Unity’ of Carinthia?”;

2021_4_Eszik

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A Small Town’s Quest for Modernity in the Shadow of the Big City: The Case of Senj and Fiume

Veronika Eszik
Research Centre for the Humanities
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Hungarian Historical Review Volume 10 Issue 4  (2021):706-736 DOI 10.38145/2021.4.706

Most of the theories concerning modernization and a number of trends in the historiography treat the big city as the most important arena of modernization, an arena which, thanks to our grasp of an array of social and economic transformations, can be made the ideal subject of studies on the processes and consequences of modernization. From this perspective, the small town becomes a kind of abstraction for backwardness, failed attempts to catch up, or a community that simply has remained unaffected by modernization. Thus, the study of the dynamics of modernization in smaller urban settlements from a new perspective which attributes genuine agency to them may well offer new findings and insights. In the historiography concerning the Austro-Hungarian Monarchy, the recent imperial turn has shown a perfectly natural interest in the peripheries of the empire, as it has striven to untangle the intertwining strands of local, regional, national, and imperial loyalties found there. The research on which this article is based, which focuses on Senj (Zengg), a small seaside Croatian city, is shaped by this dual interest. Senj’s resistance and adaptation to top-down initiatives of modernization can be captured through its conflict with the city of Fiume (today Rijeka, Croatia), which is not far from Senj and which before World War I belonged to Hungary. In this story, Fiume represents the “mainstream” manner of big-city modernization: it became the tenth most active port city in Europe over the course of a few decades. The area surrounding the city, however, was not able to keep up with this rapid pace of development. In this article, I present the distinctive program for modernization adopted by the elites of Senj, as well as their critique of modernization. Furthermore, the history of the city towards the end of the nineteenth century sheds light on the interdependencies among the cities of Austria–Hungary, interdependencies which were independent of legal or administrative borders. By analyzing relations between Senj and Fiume, I seek to offer a nuanced interpretation of the conflict between the two cities, which tends to be portrayed simply as a consequence of national antagonisms.

Keywords: anti-modernism, scaling urban modernity, urban history, Austro-Hungarian Monarchy, Fiume, Senj

For both contemporaries and historians, the explosion of urbanization in the second half of the nineteenth century seemed a fundamental process the study of which, it was hoped, would yield insights into the essence of the great transformation called modernization. The industrializing metropolis, which was expanding at an unprecedented rate, was seen by scholars (sociologists, social psychologists, historians, urbanists) as a kind of laboratory. With regards to the writing of history, this understanding of the big city has survived to the present day in an array of trends in the historiography.1

Regardless of their actual size, small towns figured in this modernization-discourse only as the counterexample of or counterpoint to the metropolis: as an ideal type, they represented everything against which urban modernity could be defined. In the eyes of critics of the big city, they offered a cohesive community instead of an atomized society, a space of serenity instead of overstimulation, breathing room instead of congestion, a human scale instead of exaggeration, a stable value system instead of a crisis of values, or in other words, a space which was thriving from the perspectives of health care, intellectual and moral prosperity. In contrast, in the eyes of admirers of urban modernity, the small town was defined by its shortcomings. As a space that had been left out of the process of modernization, it was seen as stagnant or in decline. These two visions2 thus idealized or, by simply applying the label “backward,” ignored the specific trajectories of small-town development. Apart from the top predators in the urban networks (i.e. the most rapidly developing), other cities seemed motionless, doomed to stagnation, or frozen in the pose of preservation of values, and historical scholarship rarely sought to uncover the distinctive dynamics of their processes of modernization.

In 2008, the Journal of Urban History devoted a thematic issue entitled Decentering Urban History to the problem of small towns. In the introductory study to the issue, James J. Connolly criticized the secondary literature on urban history for focusing predominantly on metropolises and for having “failed to distinguish between the metropolis and the smaller, more peripheral cities in meaningful ways.”3 In other words, according to Connolly, while there is no shortage of case studies on cities that occupy a secondary place in the urban hierarchy, many of these studies either describe these cities as counterexamples to the big city or simply insist on difference in size. And yet it was precisely the process of urbanization in the second half of the nineteenth century that made it essential to draw a conceptual distinction between “small” and “big.” In theoretical works on modern urban life, this separation of settlements into big city or small city appears at the same time as the process itself, i.e. towards the end of the nineteenth century. The long-standing topos of the opposition between nature and city (a topos often attributed to Rousseau) was enriched with a new shade of meaning when the modern metropolis began to become such a striking phenomenon in the European urban network. It was no longer simply a matter of the ways in which, in contrast with the rural lifestyle, the huge crowds thronging into the cities allegedly exerted a corrupting influence and city life in general was physically unhealthy. Now, the industrializing city was seen as a threat to urban values themselves.4 It thus became necessary to consider what made a city good and how the modern city could be good to live in. The arguments used in the discourses against city life shifted away from praise of rural communities and towards a positive reassessment of the small town, and the array of theoretical works on urbanization began to raise questions concerning the ways in which the city could be improved or perfected.5

This theoretical body of work, however, in no way compensates for the dearth of historical research which describes the settlements which fell on the lower levels of the urban hierarchy as communities which were capable of taking action. Small towns reacted to change in a variety of ways: their strategies depended on their experiences, resources, and demographics, as well as on the trades and professions in which their populations specialized. These towns offered an array of different economic imaginaries,6 mindsets that were highly dependent on the settlements’ intellectual capital. The town under investigation in this paper showed willingness to take initiative. Senj’s (Zengg by its Hungarian name)7 reaction to radical transformation was twofold: on the one hand, the town’s intellectuals turned to an idealized past to find support for their community and reinforce their identity in times of transition. This anti-modern gesture was complemented, however, by their plans for the future, an alternative vision of urban modernity which included a critical perception of the dominant model: Fiume’s (today Rijeka, Croatia) way of development. When facing change, Senj showed both resistance and adaptation, and its strategies drew on both traditionalism and innovation. The aim of this article is to examine these complex techniques, which made the town resilient to the potentially destructive forces of modernization.

Over the course of the past two decades, researchers focusing on the history of the Austro-Hungarian Monarchy have realized that very little attention has been paid to distinctive patterns and strategies of small-town modernization, and they have also realized the potential insights the study of these patterns and strategies might yield. Naturally, representatives of the so-called imperial turn8 in the historiography have looked with interest at the peripheries of the empire, as they have striven to untangle the intertwining strands of local, regional, national, and imperial loyalties found in these regions. Research which has adopted this perspective as its point of departure found less that was of interest in the development of the large imperial or national capitals than it did in the histories of the diverse regional centers on different levels of the urban hierarchy. Vienna, Budapest, Prague, and Zagreb came to be seen as “cosmopolitan cities with a small range of influence,”9 and they gradually acquired the accoutrements of major international cities. At the same time, smaller urban centers which did not follow the patterns of globalizing urbanism had the potential to reveal more about the functioning of the multiethnic empire.10 From the perspectives of ethnic, denominational, and occupational makeup or culture and urban planning, they may have been more colorful in the Central European context in which one of the defining elements was heterogeneity, a heterogeneity of which the homogenizing centers offered the least evidence.

My research, which focuses on Senj, a small seaside Croatian city, is shaped by this dual interest: I investigate the town’s resilience and its role in a multilayered urban network. The town’s resilience reminds us that there was life outside of the metropolises, and the role it played in the urban network sheds light on the ways in which local experiences of urban modernity and modernity as otherness can modify macro-level political indicators such as election results. There is ample evidence in the secondary literature showing that nationalist mobilization is more successful when social and ethnic cleavages overlap, but a reverse logic is also of interest. When access to modernization is uneven among different national communities, it soon becomes apparent that modernization is a power tool, and this realization can influence political loyalties as much as national feelings of belonging can.

Senj, a settlement of roughly 3,000 people, is not far from the city of Fiume, which, over the course of only a few decades, became the tenth most active port city in Europe.11 Not surprisingly, the area surrounding the city, the Croatian Adriatic littoral, was not able to keep up with this rapid pace of development. However, Senj’s response, a program of conservation and modernization, went well beyond simple efforts to catch up. Representatives of the community developed a vision which was based on a kind of middle road between the extremes of growth into a bustling metropolis and stagnation. They thus sought to transform the position of the town, which was increasingly excluded from large industry and global trade, into an advantage. This vision had elements of nostalgia and anti-modernism, but it also offered an alternative vision of the future.12 The city also used the most modern tools to propagate this vision, from the budding regional and national press to the cultivation of a thriving array of associations.

The history of Senj at the end of the nineteenth century also sheds light on the close connections among and interdependence of the cities of the Habsburg lands, regardless of legal boundaries. Although Senj was separated from Fiume by an administrative border, as Senj belonged legally to Croatia while Fiume belonged to Hungary within the dual state, its opportunities for growth and development were determined far more by the port city than by Zagreb, which was gradually becoming the Croatian national capital. Vienna and Budapest also had an increasing influence on Senj’s fate, as the two capital cities played a fundamental role in the multilevel decision-making structure of the empire. The tension between Fiume and Senj has usually been characterized in the secondary literature as a consequence of national antagonisms, but it is quite clear that everyday life in cities along the (Hungarian-)Croatian coast was shaped as much or more by their different opportunities and their varying access to the infrastructure than it was by the national question. Thus, the focus of this essay is not on the discourses of nation-building which were prominent at the time, but rather on local discourses and strategies related to modernization.

As the only seaport in Hungary, Fiume played a major role in the national economy, and the Hungarian state made significant investments to improve its infrastructure and industry and make the city competitive with similar port cities across Europe as quickly as possible.13 The rapid growth to which the city bore witness is perhaps most clearly illustrated by the fact that, between 1867 (the year of the Austro-Hungarian Settlement) and 1891, the population of this “merchant, sailor, and fisherman town” tripled, and from the perspective of the population of the city that was engaged in industry and traffic, it was the second most industrialized city in Hungary after Banská Štiavnica (Selmecbánya).14

The secondary literature has attempted to place the city, which was linked to the Hungarian crown as a corpus separatum, in the Hungarian urban hierarchy, although it is difficult to find a single category in the various classifications which adequately describes its role and functioning:

The situation and urban roles of Fiume […] were special in the Dualist era; legally it was an exclave of Hungary and the authority of its administrative institutions did not reach beyond the boundaries of the town. Being the only seaport of Hungary, it enjoyed substantial support from the Hungarian state. […]. As regards the volume of its urban functions, it is at the top of the order of the county centres […] its hinterland was nevertheless not in the neighbouring areas—from which it was separated by administrative borders, orographic obstacles and the lack of transport infrastructure, and even by language differences—but in its far-away motherland.15

This characterization of the city as isolated begs for nuance. The position of Fiume can hardly be assessed simply on the basis of its place in the Hungarian urban hierarchy. After Zagreb, it was the second most industrialized city in Croatia as well.16 More importantly, its modernization had a massive regional influence also. The investigation of the latter makes perceptible the effects of industrialization on the transformation of the urban network across the state-legal frameworks. True, Fiume belonged to the Hungarian crown, but it still played a vibrant role in the network of Croatian cities, and it exerted a strong influence on the seaside settlements in its vicinity.

This influence was mostly a consequence of the fact that all of the infrastructure investments flowed into Fiume. Through its railway connections and the development of its harbor, the city had an unsurmountable advantage over the neighboring port cities, which earlier had been in roughly the same position. Senj was the biggest loser in the concentration of resources. Prior to the construction of the railway that connected Fiume with Zagreb and Budapest (1873), the city had been a major commercial center thanks to the Josephina,17 a historic road which connected Senj with the city of Karlovac (Károlyváros). Senj resold the goods arriving on this route through its flourishing harbor. However, with the spread of the use of steamships, both the commercial and the main industrial profiles of the town were pushed into the background, and the urban elite, which relied largely on shipbuilding, lost its source of income and thus its status. In this difficult situation, the patrician layer in Senj redefined its role and developed various strategies to address the crisis. In the first part of this essay, I focus briefly on the narratives concerning this shift, including specific visions of the path to urban change for Fiume and Senj, and in the second and third sections, I focus on the solutions that were suggested.

As I shall show, the elites of Senj adopted strategies that raised the struggle of the town to national significance in at least two respects. First, Senj and the surrounding Lika-Krbava County became the core area of the Croatian Party of Rights, the main opposition force in the Croatian parliament (the Sabor)18 until the 1880s. The Party of Rights and its leader, Ante Starčević (often called “The Father of the Nation”), advocated for the integrity of Croatian lands and more political and economic independence for the country. The national movement thus found its most loyal voters and adherents in the area under investigation. Second, the Senj Chamber of Commerce and Industry, which was in almost continuous contact with decision-making circles in Vienna, Budapest and Zagreb, resolved to advance the cause of small-scale industry. The rescue of the handicraft industry seemed a prudent self-defense strategy for the industrial association of the city, which had been left out of the capitalist manufacturing industry and indeed had even had to deal with issues which had arisen because of abuses and mismanagement in this sector. This strategy was consistently represented at the national level with the mediation of the Zagreb Chamber of Commerce and Industry.

I have drawn primarily on articles from the local press, though I also examine the oeuvre of Vjenceslav Novak, perhaps the most significant writer of the region and age, as well as the documents of the Senj Chamber of Commerce and Industry. Due to the town’s extremely limited opportunities to assert political interests, the chamber came to play a remarkably important political role too. Though no archives of the chamber survived, thanks to its active maintenance of ties and contacts with various decision-making bodies (the Royal Hungarian Maritime Authority, various ministries, the local government, the Zagreb Chamber of Commerce and Industry, etc.), we have an array of admittedly scattered resources on the basis of which we can arrive at a relatively clear understanding of the work of the institution as an instrument for lobbying, to use a word from today’s political parlance.

Perceptions of Senj’s Loss of Position

Though at one point a flourishing hub for commerce and sailing ship-building and also an episcopal and a military center, Senj was plunged into crisis by shifts in trade routes and the increasing use of the steamboat, which slowly came to replace the sailing ship. Traffic on the aforementioned Josephina had begun to decline with the construction of the Trieste railway line, but it dropped dramatically with the completion in 1873 of the railway line between Karlovac and Fiume. As the table below shows, Senj had not recovered from the consequences of this diversion of traffic even several decades later. The city started to see some transitional improvements in 1905, due primarily to the strengthening of a single company, Hrvatsko parobrodarsko društvo, which was founded in 1902. Although the economic crisis of the 1870s and then the agricultural crisis contributed to the sustained decline in traffic, the major factor was quite simply the fact that Senj had lost much of its hinterland: areas that traditionally had transported their goods to the port city were able to reach Fiume more quickly and at less expense.

 

Table 1. Traffic in the Senj harbor, 1859–1910, tons/year19

1859

1862

1875

1901

1905*

1910

109,389

127,159

59,518

118,508

255,903

254,472

 

* Concerning the interpretation of the peak value of 1905, a comparison with Fiume is useful: according to the calculations of Márton Pelles, the total traffic in the Hungarian port in 1905 was 1,500,000 tons. Pelles, “Üzleti és nemzeti érdekek,” 158.

In the meantime, the steamship had completely transformed the world of maritime trade. The fleet of steamships was not only more reliable, faster, and able to carry far heavier loads, it was also very capital intensive.20 It was precisely for this reason that the only shipping companies that were able to remain in business in the empire were the ones which enjoyed some form of state support. The Hungarian state decided to devote most of its support to two large companies based in Fiume: the “Adria” Royal Hungarian Sea Navigation Company, which was engaged in long-distance trade, and the Hungarian-Croatian Steamship Company (commonly known as Ungaro-Croata), which handled coastal shipping.21 The shipping companies which were entirely reliant on private capital in general, including the various consortia of Senj traders, were not able to compete with them. Steamships, moreover, could only be built in shipyards with adequate mechanical and financial resources, and the traditional shipyards, most of which were family businesses, went out of business one by one, not only in Senj but also in Fiume.22

The transformation of traffic patterns and industry also brought about changes in the hierarchy of cities in Croatia. Most of the 17 settlements which were recognized as cities showed only modest growth in the Dualist Era according to all indicators of urbanization. In contrast, Karlovac, Sisak (Sziszek), Senj, and Bakar (Buccari) did not even enjoy modest growth. Karlovac and Sisak were adversely affected by railway policy, while Senj and Buccari by both the advent of the railway and transformations in the maritime sector.23 In the case of Senj, demographic indicators offer clear evidence of this process, and not only in moments of stagnation, but rather as a trend in population decline which lasted until 1890 (see Table 2). Migration to the New World, a common concern for nationalists across the Kingdom of Croatia-Slavonia, was proverbially the most striking phenomenon precisely in Lika-Krbava County.

 

Table 2. Population shifts in Fiume and Senj, 1869–191024

 

1869

1880

1890

1900

1910

Growth 1869–1880

Growth 1880–1890

Growth 1890–1900

Growth 1900–1910

Fiume

17,884

21,273

29,494

38,955

49,806

18.95%

38.65%

32.07%

27.85%

Senj

3,231

3,039

2,785

3,182

3,293

–5.94%

–8.35%

14%

3.48%

 

Several of the documents of the Senj Chamber of Commerce and Industry, which was searching desperately for solutions to slow the population decline, offered diagnoses of varying lengths of the problems that the city faced. An 1885 letter to Ban Károly (Dragutin) Khuen-Héderváry25 offered a dramatic picture of the situation of the city:

The city of Senj, which was known for its famous and very busy market on the Croatian coast not so many years ago, is facing a rapid decline in trade today and, and deprived of its greatest strength […], the city fears that it will have an even darker future if some change does not save it from the fate of the other seaside harbors which were once engaged in trade but today are dead.26

 

The contrast with the praise which was showered on Fiume in the Hungarian press, Hungarian literature, and Hungarian scholarship is striking.27 Given their very different fates, the two Adriatic cities offered perfect examples of the bustling modern big city on the one hand and the traditional small town which was unable to keep up with its rival on the other. Of course, both smallness and bigness are relational and subjective. We use these categories as they appear in local narratives about the two settlements’ fates, narratives which repeat the abovementioned clichés about modern urban living while also offering local modifications of these general visions.

One of the most elaborate among these narratives can be captured in the literary works of a Senj-based circle,28 mainly in the writings of the most outstanding writer of realist novels in Croatian literature, Vjenceslav Novak, who was born in Senj. His 1899 novel Posljednji Štipančići [The last of the Štipančić line], for instance, offers the story of the decline of a Senj patrician family. Juraj Štipančić, the last son of this family, leaves the family house, and in Zagreb, he cannot “resist” changing his name to the conspicuously Hungarian name György Istvánffy. In several of his works, Novak deals with the problems of his “homeland,” narrowly understood, or in other words, Senj and the Croatian coast.

Particularly interesting from the perspective of this discussion, however, is the mental map that emerges from his works, a map on which the Velebit mountain range, which surrounds Senj, is essentially a line which separates two worlds. The mountains hold Senj, a town which is stuck in its traditions, in their embrace, isolating it not only from the rest of Croatia, but also from the rest of Europe and, indeed, the world. In Novak’s works, Vienna, Bratislava (Pozsony), Prague, and London stand in sharp contrast to the seaside county, the marginality of which is eloquently captured in a Croatian word borrowed from Hungarian, the adjective “varmeđinski,” an adjective which means something like “of the shire” and which comes etymologically from the Hungarian word “vármegyei,” which could be translated as county but which has feudal and provincial overtones.29

What a difference there is between a poor life by the sea and the swirling whirlpool of other human lives! […] Here, man and nature are got to know from the songs and stories born by meager hearths, while there, the human soul besieges the peaks of wealth, the sciences, the arts, and cultivation […]!30

The spaces which acquired symbolic meaning as the embodiments or symptoms of backwardness and the absence of modernity were the closed interiors and ruins of houses that had either been abandoned or were being demolished, spaces from which the realms of fantasy were the only refuge (music, the sciences, or more precisely, the study of Darwinism).31 The Senj of the last son of the Štipančić line emerges as a town from which there is no escape, an insular city (surrounded by a literal wall) with only a narrow grasp of the word outside, a place of passivity and suspicious resentment of anything new. By using this small-town topos, Novak places the city of his birth alongside the small towns of Stendhal, Balzac, Flaubert, or even Chekhov. Thus, nostalgia and the critique of modernization are articulated with the help of modern expressive tools which fit well into the most recent literary trends of the time.

The novel about the small town also offers a portrayal of the slowness of life in the city. The sense of time standing still is again in sharp contrast with the world of the modern industrial city, in which the sense of the fast pace of life is one of the most salient elements, or the sense of rush and hurry,32 which is even more subjective. In the city of Senj as depicted in Novak’s novel, in contrast, the bora (a strong north to northeastern wind) forces the denizens of the harbor town to take shelter in their homes, and it mercilessly tears the sails of the ships, much as it has for centuries. But this century is different from the previous ones, for this century is moving at a breathtaking pace. Senj’s exclusion from all this, of course, is a loss only from a certain perspective. In the depictions of cities in the Senj literature and in some of the local press, traditionalism is an ambivalent concept which includes not simply elements of backwardness but also the preservation of values. In Posljednji Štipančići, the lost golden age has an appealing allure, although the attempts to recapture this allure is sometimes caricature-like. The image of the city as a stronghold with a heroic military past which put up brave resistance to the Ottoman Turks and then flourished as a prosperous commercial center is clearly a lofty vision somewhat distant from the realities of everyday life. According to Valpurga, the mother in the ancient patrician family, the men of Senj were once a good head taller than the men of the city today, and the women took silver buckets with them when they went to the well for water.33 Putting the caricature aside, Senj was home to the established patrician families which had founded, in 1835, the oldest reading circle and printing-house of South Slavic countries, and the other cultural institutions in the town or the active associational life suggest that, as a community, the city did indeed try to preserve genuine values.34 Under the difficult economic circumstances that the city came to face, it fell on the cultural institutions of Senj (or to use the term which has become part of our parlance today, the civil sphere) to safeguard something of the city’s positive self- image, and naturally this local patriot effort to maintain the town’s identity turned to the more beautiful moments of the settlement’s past for affirmation.

Radiša (Brave Worker), a Senj newspaper which was launched in 1875 (but which had gone out of print within a year), published a three-part series of articles entitled “What was the City of Senj Like Then and What is it Like Today?” by theologian, philologist, and grammar school instructor Ivan Radetić. The text strikes a nostalgic tone while also rebuking the denizens of the city who were incapable of moving and who even hampered the growth of the town, “moving in crab-like steps.” Radetić writes with praise of the alleged virtues of the city in the past, including its cohesive power and the tendency to put the individual pursuit of happiness to the side in favor of the common good, a tendency which, Radetić claims, stands in contrast with the individualism of his era. In his assessment of the situation at the time, however, he does not blame the difficulties that the city faces entirely on external factors:

Because of Senj’s position, it is destined to bring commerce to the sea. The sea has raised many cities, but Senj must always have been among the first. But today, trade in the city not only will not grow, it will decline. What is the reason for this? Perhaps the railroads that were built in the area. […] The other cause of the crab-like steps which hinder the development of Senj is the population of the city itself. The old people of Senj were united in everything, they were brave, ready to work, and they lived together like a single big family […]. But now! nothing but dissension, envy, hatred, and conflict.35

 

In Radetić’s narrative, selfishness and the rejection of anything new appear as habitudes the origins of which are essentially the same, habitudes which are caused by a narrow horizon and a lack of culture and cultivation:

With the exception of the few officials and the priest […] the majority does not concern itself with the common industrial worker and merchant class. […] People who have never explored the big world and have never striven to see it through different eyes cannot know anything of the development which is underway in the rest of the world. They sincerely believe that if their selfish and personal aims are achieved, everything is just fine.36

Such people, Radetić seems to suggest, are easy to deceive, because they have no knowledge of the processes going on around them, and they see anyone who wants to bring about change as an enemy. Thus, the more cautious no longer dare mention “development,” as they fear that if they do, whatever initiatives they may seek to take will be severed at the roots. The newspaper saw it as the mission of the Senj Chamber of Commerce and Industry to foster a sense of cooperation and to bring about unified, rapid action.

The image one gets of Senj on the basis of the various sources can be described, a bit summarily, as a traditionalist cityscape, with consideration, of course, of all the contradictions in this compound word. The symbolic counterpoint to the city of Senj was Fiume, the glittery, bustling harbor city, which was seen and depicted as such in the spheres of public life in Hungary, in which it was celebrated as the triumphant result of modernization. However, if one considers sources on Fiume that are from the area around the busy harbor town, one stumbles across a very different perception of the city. In these texts, Fiume, which, in contrast with Senj, was enjoying dynamic growth and had been rapidly transformed, with significant state assistance, into a node in the capitalist economy, is not portrayed in unambiguously positive terms. In a memorandum that was composed in May 1886 and was sent by the Senj chamber to the Zagreb government and the Hungarian Royal Ministry of Agriculture, Industry, and Commerce, the development which Fiume was undergoing is characterized as an exaggerated, unnatural, even harmful process. The memorandum called attention to the recurring problems caused by congestion because of the limits of the railway junction, which led to stockpiles of good that did not make it to their destinations, and it drew the following conclusion: “While Rijeka is, to put it in vulgar terms, drowning in its own fat, the harbors in Bakar and Kraljevica are declining dramatically because of lack of use.”37

One finds similar perceptions of Fiume in sources from the city itself. In the periodical La Difesa, which was the first organ of the press published by the Italian Autonomous Party of Fiume (it was launched in 1898), one regularly found articles advocating the interests of local artisans and calling attention to the shift in the mindset of the city:

[…] When commerce with the sailing ship was flourishing, the people of Fiume were frugal, hardworking, and dignified. […] The change in their mentality was attributed to the decline in the use of the sailing ship, and it was believed that they became vulnerable and easy to manipulate as a result of the tensions arising from the precariousness of their incomes and the unfavorable political events. This was the beginning, it was said, of the era of grand inaugural ceremonies, banquets, and political promises, which has lasted now for 30 (!) years. Those who call for autonomy complain that the benefits of the improvements

have been skimmed not by them, but by government confidants: small retailers and artisans are out of work and are compelled, in their penury, to rely on charity, and those who own ships are more likely to register their vessels in Trieste.38

Distasteful luxury investments, signs of excess, and the unhealthy inundation of consumer goods are recurring elements of the negative image of Fiume as the city increasingly came to dominate economic life on the Croatian coast. This narrative differs from the usual criticisms of industrial centers, which tend to focus on neighborhoods allegedly thronging with impoverished, penurious crowds and characterized by unsustainable hygiene and moral depravity. The classic formulation of the latter perception of the urban world is coupled in Lewis Mumford’s work with a critique of the vision of industrialization as an indisputably salubrious development.39

Because of the distinctive features of the local context, a narrative emerged concerning Fiume which differed from this classic understanding of the city. Due to the scarcity of space, the city never really had neighborhoods which were home exclusively to the working class.40 Rather, for the most part, the industrial workforce commuted to the city to work in the factories. As new urban spaces could only be created by transforming parts of the sea into land, the square meters of space that were won through this process served functions both in the local industries and as symbols of the city’s rapid development. The natural surroundings of the city prevented haphazard growth, as there were essentially literal barriers to expansion in every direction. Precisely for this reason, an interesting local variation emerged of the critical perception of the industrial city, which did not simply borrow or recycle the tropes of the anticapitalistic phobia of urbanization which, by then, were well worn and intermixed with several general commonplaces.41

This local variation complained more about the industrial port than about industrial neighborhoods. The widespread use of the steamship instead of the sailing ship was unquestionably a change which was met with a nostalgic-romantic sense of loss and an attachment to the old way of life over the new, even if the new was more efficient and more profitable. A Hungarian doctor on one of the frigates captured these sentiments in his description of the changes that had taken place (he also notes straightforwardly that steamships are simply ugly, as they ruin the cityscape with their chimneys):

As the navy slowly crossed the sailing ships off the “list” of vessels in its fleet, the age of chivalry faded and vanished just as quickly from the sea. […] The mission of the armored ships is also beautiful and glorious […]; but it does not attain the heights of the life of the now bygone era of the sailing ship, which was full of struggle, danger, sacrifice, and hardship, but which was, above all, wondrously beautiful.42

In summary, in the first decades after the Croatian-Hungarian Settlement, the hierarchy of cities in the coastal region was completely rearranged, and this rearrangement led to new readings of Fiume, the city which emerged as the victor of this process, and Senj, which was one of the biggest losers. Both cities bore witness to dramatic changes, and these changes were met with sensitive reactions. Distinctive local versions of the capitalist critique of industrial cities were formed, as was a narrative of the “backward city,” which both bewailed the lack of modernization while at the same time placing emphasis on the alleged importance of preserving values from the past.

“Nest of Grocers, Tailors, and Cobblers” from a Sense of Inferiority to the Strategic Representation of the Craft Industry

The reference to professions in the title above is from Novak’s novel the Posljednji Štipančići. It comes from the mouth of the father figure in the book, and it has a decidedly derisive tone. It is meant as a characterization of the inferiority of Senj, a city in which one could hardly find any truly sophisticated representatives of the new urban class alongside the artisans whose professions are mentioned so dismissively. However, if one ignores the derisive overtones, the characterization is in fact a relatively accurate description of the social composition of the city. According to the 1900 census, the proportion of people who were involved in artisanal trades and commerce in Senj was very high (43.55 percent).43 Since there was only one manufacturing institution—a tobacco factory44 founded in 1894—in the city at the time (and initially it was merely a subsidiary of a parent company in Fiume), handcrafts and artisanal trades really did dominate the city’s economy. If one examines the situation in Lika-Krbava County as a whole, the picture is even clearer. Under the new county law passed in 1886,45 counties were required to submit a comprehensive annual report to the government with the most important statistics affecting the area. In the annual reports of Lika-Krbava County, under the heading “Industry,” most of the time, one finds simply the comment that, “in the absence of a railway junction, there is no industry in the county,” and the permits which were issued are listed, for the most part permits for small-scale industries (such as brewing).

Under the circumstances, the advocacy work of the Senj Chamber of Commerce and Industry focused primarily on two areas. First, the Chamber tirelessly composed innumerable submissions and requests for the construction of a railway junction and the modernization of the port, though to no avail.46 Over time, it took on another role, mainly through the work of its most dedicated secretary, Sebald Cihlar. It undertook to protect small-scale, traditional handicrafts from the rise of manufacturing industry. The Chamber also sought to accomplish this mission at the national level. In 1884, for example, when the new law concerning industry was being negotiated by the chambers of commerce and industry, it was the Senj Chamber that pushed for the convocation of another national assembly to be held as soon as possible, where the only topic would be the protection of small industry. The assembly was indeed held, and several issues concerning industry were regulated. The Senj Chamber was given the task of developing regulations for certain professions (for instance chimney sweeping and tavern keeping). Obrtnik (Craftsman), the chambers’ central Zagreb newspaper, regularly reported on the initiatives of the Senj Chamber.47

A law on chambers of commerce and industry was passed in 1868 which applied to Croatia-Slavonia, and a similar law was passed applying to the Military Frontier a year later.48 However, the Senj Chamber did not begin operations until 1876, making it the youngest of this type of advocacy body in the country. One of the reasons for the delay is found in the difficulties surrounding the demilitarization of the Frontier.49 Senj sought to carry out the advocacy work to serve its own interests as a free royal city and as a harbor town, and it was less eager to accept responsibility for the economic problems faced by the communities in the border region. It was thus slow to establish a chamber. The second reason lies in the fact that the city of Bakar was also a possible candidate as the seat for the chamber, so the Senj patricians in the Sabor had to fight to protect their hometown’s status. The issue of the location of the seat of the chamber was important in part because half of the members of the chamber were elected from among the denizens of the city which was chosen to function as the seat. Thus, these representatives would be able to keep local questions on the agenda, and they would be able to form a unified interest group within the chamber.50

As an institution, the chamber “functioned as a link between the state administration and the practical world of everyday life, and the chambers served as legal representative bodies of the interests entrusted to them in opposition to the bodies of state administration.”51 In the sub-dualist system, Croatia had limited autonomy in its handling of its financial affairs. With the approval of the bans, lord lieutenants were put at the head of the counties, as a result they could not really put up much opposition. Given the lack of income, the city leadership hardly had any room for maneuver, so the various forms in which the chambers were able to represent the interests of the trades and the cities constituted the legal channels through which local interests could be communicated to the various organs which actually made decisions. The given organs had to respond to them, in contrast with the problems raised in the local organs of the opposition press.

In 1888, at the request of the Lord Lieutenant of Lika-Krbava County, Chamber Secretary Sebald Cihlar drew up a proposal to deal with the crisis in Senj which was also something of a summary of his ten years of work as a member of the chamber. Though he had previously been involved in the struggle for the modernization of the city’s infrastructure,52 Cihlar clearly considered, according to this proposal, the preservation of the town’s handcrafts and the improvement of the quality of small-scale production a priority, and he did not even mention the situation of railways and ports. He presented his position as a stance in favor of the presentation of values, which he characterized as necessary due to the aggressive expansion of large-scale industry. The crisis in the craft industry was a complex social problem, in his view, because a great wealth of knowledge and expertise would be lost, as would the dignity stemming from mastery of these crafts, a dignity (or to use his word, pride) which earlier had been characteristic of the denizens of Senj and which indeed had helped sustain them (he claimed) in the face of adversity.53

After giving his diagnosis, Cihlar made four suggestions to improve the situation. First, he proposed providing a subsidy or loan of 15,000–20,000 Hungarian forint as a form of emergency aid which could be used by the “local industrial class” for the purchase and storage of raw materials. He also pushed to have the army become a permanent customer of the Senj craft industry, as “army orders would provide permanent business for artisans […]. In addition, it would encourage [them] to unite, and together, they would be better able to compete with big industry.”54 Cihlar also suggested that only artisans with a formal license should be allowed to work, as this would offer some assurance of quality control. Finally, he proposed the establishment of a vocational school, and he offered praise for the development of vocational education in Zagreb, which had been launched at the initiative of Minister of Culture Izidor Kršnjavi. Given the traditions in Senj and the potentials of the city, Cihlar recommended setting up a vocational school for the wood industry.

Calls for the protection of small industry in the face of cheap industrial mass production and its allegedly soullessly uniform production methods are hardly an unfamiliar phenomenon in the history of industry and urbanization. Camillo Sitte based his theoretical ideas concerning modern urban planning on this very notion of preservation of values, and these ideas, originally formulated in 1889, were made well-known by Carl. E. Schorske’s dramatically influential essay concerning urban architecture in Vienna at the turn of the century. Sitte argued against the rationalized space of the big city and in favor of the city community created by the handcraft and artisanal industries (and therefore necessarily less monumental in scale). One of the very clear social implications of this urban development project was the potential safeguards it would provide for the layer of people engaged in small industry, whose source of income was threatened by industrialization. Sitte’s ideas were a source of inspiration for others too. Numerous antimodernist narratives which were critical of the big city drew heavily on his arguments.55

What is most important from the perspective of the discussion here, however, is not the relevance of these considerations in the larger history of ideas so much as the simple fact that both the community of a small city and the administrative body which served as a representative of its interests came to very similar conclusions on the basis of lived experiences. They formulated a distinct vision of urban modernization which took local considerations into account, and they arrived at decisions concerning local interests independently. This bears an interesting affinity with the thoroughly-researched German context, where there was a clear parallel between the decline of the prominence and influence of small, independent artisans and the increasing emergence of a particular ideological-political posture of popular anti-modernism.56

This autonomy suggests that what we refer to as urban modernization is not actually a single, uniform process, but rather a combination of processes which are at times different both in their emphasis and their pace. In the case of Senj, for instance, the town had far more intellectual capital than it did real capital (put simply, money). While the intellectual capital of the city paid close attention to the dynamics of modernization and even worked out alternative paths, attempts to bring real capital to Senj remained largely unsuccessful throughout the period under discussion. If there was a single characteristic of Senj which would throw into question the topos of the small town as a space of stagnation, it was its intellectual and cultural potential. The episcopal seat is a case in point. The four bishops who served between 1868 and 1914 were highly educated, broad-minded intellectuals who represented the grandiose heritage of the episcopate, which had been founded in the fifth century and had functioned continuously ever since. Juraj Posilović, one of the bishops, rose to the position of the archbishop of Zagreb. Another, Antun Maurović, had been the rector of Zagreb University before his appointment to Senj. The fathers of the other two (Vjenceslav Soić and Roko Vučić) were sea captains from the region.57 Two future bishops grew up experiencing the decline of their fathers’ social standing as well as the florescence of the intellectual climate offered by Senj’s schools and churches. These figures show how a town of 3,000 dwellers can be a place of national influence and authenticity at the same time.

The grammar school (which stood out as excellent even on the national level), the very active work of the associations, as well as the literary life and organs of the press all show very clearly that the denizens of the town had access to an array of impulses that formed their economic and political imaginaries. In discussions of the complexity of modernization with regards to other settlements, it may be prudent to devote some study to the disharmonic movement between material and intellectual capital. An imbalance between the potentials of a given community and the actual opportunities it has may be a common feature of urban settlements which find themselves in the second row.

In the texts discussed in this essay, emphasis on the benefits of the handcraft industry is mixed with antimodernist views, or in other words, the advocacy activity of the chambers harmonizes with the critique of large-scale industry and capitalism in the readings of the city presented in the previous section. The case of Senj is hardly without precedent, but it has one distinctive and important feature. The main railway line, which bypassed Senj, was officially built by a “foreign” government, and Senj was separated from its rival (Fiume) by an administrative border. In the final section of the essay, I address the political implications of these factors.

The Success of the Party of Rights in Senj

It is gratifying that the Fiume periodical Bilancia has provided a prominent space for the publication […] of last year’s report of the Senj Chamber of Commerce and Industry. Bilancia has thus made clear that it is of the following view: economic expansion in Fiume has not played even the slightest role in the economic conditions in the territories represented by the Senj Chamber […], and on the basis of the report, it was not capable of drawing any other conclusion than that the circumstances in the area under the jurisdiction of the Chamber are “regrettable and embittering” because the crop was bad.58

 

The sense of indignation in the passage cited above was the dominant tone of Novi List, the periodical published by the oppositional Party of Rights in Sušak (Szusák, direct neighboring city of Fiume, and today part of it, at the time beyond the Hungarian border and thus belonging to Croatia)59. The article captures the frustration with the failure to recognize the process which I have described in this essay: the concentration of capital in Fiume was one of the most important factors in the economic life of the whole region.

It was easy and, to some extent, justified to blame not only capitalism in general but also the economic policy of the Hungarian government for the lag in modernization. The struggle which Senj had waged for decades for a railway connection60 and the similarly fruitless efforts to develop the harbor appeared as problems with nationalistic overtones. According to this narrative, the Hungarian government was discriminating against the settlements on the Croatian coast and had essentially usurped Fiume and made the city a tool in the service of Hungarian nation building. A discourse emerged under sub-dualism which strongly resembled the discourse which was often used by the Hungarian pro-independence opposition in the Austro-Hungarian context: among the peoples of the empire, the ruling nations were at an advantage in an unfair competition in which they controlled the imperial economy to promote their own interests, and in doing so, they prevented the other nations of the empire from developing and flourishing. The implication was obvious: the city could only hope to find solutions to the difficulties it faced if there were some change in the power relations among the major players in the larger political arena. The fact that the town of Senj and the surroundings remained an “oppositional nest” for the entire half-century of the Dualist Era is due in no small part to this insight, which also explains the fact that, by the 1880s, the area had become the most important base of support for the Party of Rights.61

The rhetoric of the Party of Rights never failed to include allusions to Senj’s bygone golden era, and thanks to the efforts of the politicians from the seaside who managed to gain some influence in the larger political framework, a circle emerged in Zagreb which represented the problems faced by the region. At the beginning of 1879, Andrija Valušnik, a representative of the Party of Rights, spoke up in support of providing the resources necessary for the proper maintenance of the seaside roads, and he noted the essential interests of the merchants for whom the railway was both distant and expensive and therefore also practically inaccessible. This issue made the disadvantages of the system created by the Compromise clear quite early on, disadvantages which included a cumbersome bureaucracy and the continuous transfer of responsibility to other administrative organs, as the Hungarian and the Croatian governments debated the issue of who was responsible for the maintenance of the roads in question for years.62

In the 1880s, three elections were held in Croatia-Slavonia. In all three (they were held in 1883, 1884, and 1887), the city of Senj sent a representative of the Party of Rights to the Sabor. In 1884, the Party of Rights won in four of the nine electoral districts in the county. In the elections held in 1887, which were infamous because of the influence of Khuen-Héderváry (who used forceful tools to ensure that the ruling party would prevail), the victory of the Party of Rights constituted a particularly remarkable feat. After the electoral reforms in 1888, the party was unable to repeat this triumph,63 but the seaside was still home to the aforementioned periodical Novi List, which was unquestionably one of the major organs of the oppositional press.

It is perhaps emblematic, from the perspective of this essay, that Josip Gržanić, who is infamous for having physically attacked the Ban in the Croatian parliament in 1885, was the representative of the Party of Rights from Senj. He is remembered today primarily for this dramatic episode, but perhaps more important from our point of view is the fact that he was socialized in the intellectual milieu (the grammar school in Senj) out which several individuals who were later prominent as Party of Rights activists also came, including for instance Fran Folnegović, who earlier had also represented Senj in the Sabor.64 Before he became active in national politics, Gržanić was the city notary, and as such, he did a great deal to further the foundation of the Senj Savings Bank. The creation of this financial institution was a fundamental precondition for the development of a capitalist economy in the region, which was difficult in part simply because the area was lacking in capital.65

Josip Gržanić was the leader of the Party of Rights in Senj in 1883, when, in the course of anti-Hungarian and anti-modernization disturbances a protest broke out.66 The demonstrators painted over the bilingual Hungarian and Croatian coats of arms on the local customs office and then tore them down and threw them in the sea, cheering both Croatia and the Party of Rights all the while. The people who were identified, in the investigation which was launched in the wake of the protest, as the “principal culprits” and instigators were all familiar names, including Gržanić and Vjenceslav Novak, but also Ladislav Krajacz, who was perhaps the most esteemed wholesale dealer in Senj and also one of the founders of Ungaro-Croata and who served, between 1886 and 1893, as the major of the city.67

The whole coastal region around Senj became one of the core areas of the wave of protests which were growing increasingly strident at the time and spreading to the villages, while the other major area where there were similar shows of discontent was the surroundings of Zagreb. This would suggest that the two large, modernized cities played roles in fomenting tensions and kindling sentiments of exasperation. In the case of the coastal region, the feelings of discontent could perhaps be explained the presence of nearby Fiume, which was seen as a display of Hungarian dominance. However, this would hardly explain the signs of frustration in the area around Zagreb. Thus, if perhaps cautiously, one could hazard the conjecture that, alongside the efforts that were being made to whip up feelings of national pride, the difficulties faced by these areas because of the transition to capitalism had a similarly decisive impact on the popularity and successes of the political opposition. This explanation seems all the more plausible if one simply takes into consideration the processes in question and the circumstances that shaped the fate of Fiume. It seems perfectly likely that Fiume would have come to play a dominant role in the region even if, in the course of the negotiations concerning the Compromise, the proposal made by the Hungarian side, according to which the city would have fallen under shared administration, had been accepted. Indeed, it probably would have risen to a position of prominence and influence in the region even if it had been put under exclusive Croatian control. Economic logic dictated that Fiume would develop very rapidly, regardless of the political constellation. The emergence of a capital intense structure (i.e. the development of factory industry and global commercial ties) radically transformed the network and hierarchy of the cities, raising some central places to new positions of dominance, while other cities, which earlier may also have flourished, would, according to all the indicators of urbanization, lag far behind.

Thus, the antagonisms which found expression in the discourses of nationalism were in fact fueled in no small part by the tensions created by modernization. There is, of course, an explanation for the conflicts which emerged which identifies ethnic attachments and passions as the primary factor, and this explanation was meaningful to the actors at the time as well. And yet both cooperation and conflict among the various (national) communities within the empire were also shaped to no small extent by the degree and pace of the processes of modernization which affected them.

This insight also furthers an understanding of the popularity of the Party of Rights among the denizens of Senj. It explains why the earlier-cited report issued after the events of 1883 identified Josip Gržanić as a figure with socialist sympathies.68 In other words, the successes of the opposition should not be attributed entirely to the appeal of anti-Hungarian political agitation. Rather, it was also a sign of the discontent of a community which was not satisfied with the central government and which felt itself both excluded from the benefits of modernization and directly exposed to its many disadvantages.

Conclusion

My primary goal in this essay was to consider the regional reactions to the growth and development of the city of Fiume, which have only rarely been made the subject of scholarly inquiry or have been presented in the secondary literature as expressions of national antagonisms. The struggle of the city of Senj was significant in the local context, but it also offers an example of how a small city formed its own distinctive vision of modernization. It thus adds a layer of nuance to the image of a peripheral city which was seen, overly simplistically, as doomed to decline. After showing how industrialization and infrastructural development in Fiume shaped the fate of its Adriatic neighbor, I examined three phenomena that can be interpreted as responses to this transformation. First, two new understandings of the city emerged which drew on the experiences of the industrial city: one can be interpreted as a critique of the modern city, while the other was the image of the traditional city which suffered from a lag in modernization or which sought to shield itself from the drawbacks of modernization. The second phenomenon I analyzed, which was tied in part to these identity-forming narratives, was the decision by the community of the city to embrace and support traditional artisanal crafts, a decision which led to concrete lobbying efforts. This task was undertaken by the Senj Chamber of Commerce and Industry. Finally, I offered a brief discussion of the political consequences of the situation that emerged. Support for the political opposition in the region was fueled not only by the national issue but also by the socio-economic transformation. All three phenomena suggest that the social changes ushered in by industrialization and, within this, the emergence of industrial capitalism (which meant a more intense concentration of resources in a smaller number of communities) were for the people at the time part of a clear process against which, in various areas and at various levels, communities fought. Neither were the towns in the region around Fiume isolated from the changes which were taking place in the growing port city, nor were they merely passive victims of the transformations which were taking place in the emerging new world. Rather, these towns developed their own paths towards modernization.

Archival Sources

Hrvatski Državni Arhiv [State Archive of Croatia] (HDA)

Izvještaji upravnog odbora županije ličko-krbavske, 1894–1918.

Magyar Nemzeti Levéltár Országos Levéltára [Hungarian National Archives] (MNL OL)

K 228 Kereskedelemügyi minisztérium; Tengerészeti, hajózási és vízépítési szakosztály iratai, 1889–1911.

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1 Ferdinand Tönnies is perhaps the individual most responsible for the popularity of this interpretation, though it then enjoyed the support of the modernization theorists he inspired. The central place theory also favored this interpretation, as did the cultural turn in urban history, which concentrated on multiple or cosmopolitan identities. On the level of world-systems theory and global history, megapolises were put center stage. Connolly, “Decentering Urban History,” 3–4.

2 Trains of thought that seek to avoid the extremes cited above can also perpetuate this dichotomy, for example in Simmel’s classic narrative, the small town is given a dual role (as a site that provides space for the individual but puts limits on his freedom), but it still remains static, as opposed to the dynamically changing character of the big city. Simmel, “The Metropolis and Mental Life.”

3 Connolly, “Decentering Urban History,” 3.

4 The classic version of this vision is Tönnies, Gemeinschaft und Gesellschaft.

5 Bourillon, “La détestation de la ville,” 5–8.

6 Much as they do today. See Lorentzen and van Heur, Cultural Political Economy of Small Cities.

7 Regarding the use of place names, I use the standard English names (assuming there is a standard English name for a given settlement) to make them easily identifiable. Fiume is an exception, since its name today, Rijeka, refers to a city changed in its structure, as it incorporates the neighboring town of Sušak. However, when citing a source, I use the name used in the source.

8 Cole, “Visions and Revisions of Empire.”

9 This somewhat cumbersome English translation of the Hungarian term “kis hatótávolságú világváros” is meant simply to refer to cities which were connected to the European transport network and were connected by the railway to at least one capital or a foreign trade center. Frisnyák borrows the term from Pál Beluszky, who originally used it to refer to Budapest only: Frisnyák “Budapest Európa,” 182.

10 Authors who deal with the reassessment of the peripheries in the urban history of the region include Gantner et al., “Backward and Peripheral?” The recent publication of a large number of works on the history of Lemberg can also be regarded as a sign of this increased interest in the subject: Fässler et al., Lemberg, Lwów, Lviv; Czaplicka, Lviv; Prokopovych, Habsburg Lemberg; Mick, Lemberg, Lwów, L’viv; Weck, Eisenbahn und Stadtentwicklung; Hein-Kircher, Lembergs “polnischen Charakter.” Varga discusses the symbolic role of cities on the border areas of a national territory imagined as an ideal: Varga, The Monumental Nation. Catherine Horel chose 12 small and medium-sized towns with different statuses as subjects of study explicitly “to counter the disproportionate attention that the largest cities in the empire receive.” Horel, Multicultural Cities. One of the theoretical foundations of Rosemary Wakeman’s monograph is criticism of metropolis-centered urban history writing: Wakeman, A Modern History.

11 Zsigmond, “A fiumei magyar tengeri,” 58. Following the Settlement concluded by the Austrian and the Hungarian parts of the Habsburg Empire (1867), the Hungarian-Croatian Compromise (1868) redefined the relationship between landlocked Hungary and maritime Croatia, granting the latter limited home rule within the framework of the Hungarian Kingdom. During the negotiations, the parties could not agree on the question regarding the control of the port city Fiume, which lay on Croatian soil but was administered directly from Budapest as a so-called corpus separatum. The legal status of Fiume remained contested until the end of the era, though the city functioned as the only Hungarian seaport. All that said on the legal status of Fiume, the port city was also a microcosm of city dwellers of various ethnicities who spoke different languages and engaged in varying economic and cultural activities. On the multi-layered and tumultuous everyday urban life in Fiume, see Kirchner Reill, The Fiume Crisis.

12 As Boym has observed concerning the nature of nostalgia in general, “Nostalgia is not always about the past; it can be retrospective but also prospective. Fantasies of the past determined by needs of the present have a direct impact on realities of the future. Consideration of the future makes us take responsibility for our nostalgic tales.” Boym, The Future of Nostalgia, 13.

13 For a recently published comprehensive assessment of the city’s economic development at the end of the nineteenth century see Zsigmond and Pelles, A fiumei magyar kereskedelmi tengerészet.

14 Kassa (today Košice, Slovakia) was also on the podium, and Budapest was in fourth place. Fried, Emlékek városa, 68, 73.

15 Beluszky and Győri, The Hungarian Urban Network, 119–20.

16 Vranješ-Šoljan, Stanovništvo gradova Banske Hrvatske, 198.

17 The Josephina was built on a route which was once used by the Romans at the initiative of Joseph II. Measured by standards at the time, it was a good-quality road. It was completed in 1779, and it connected Pannonia with Dalmatia, which meant that it connected the city of Karlovac with Senj. Until the construction of the railway lines, the Josephina was the most efficient trade route to the sea for grain from Pannonia and wood from Slavonia. From the coastal towns, it was then taken to various other cities on the Mediterranean, including, first and foremost, Venice. Szavits Nossan, “Ceste Karlovac – Senj.”

18 Sokcsevits, “A Horvát Jogpárt,” 35.

19 Simunić–Brlić, “Senjsko parobrodarstvo i socioekonomske prilike,” 124.

20 Ljubović, “Senjska luka i Jozefinska cesta.”

21 On the full spectrum of shipping companies and the role of the state see Zsigmond and Pelles, A fiumei magyar kereskedelmi tengerészet.

22 Gonda, A magyar tengerészet, 81–82.

23 Vranješ-Šoljan, Stanovništvo gradova Banske Hrvatske, 201.

24 Ibid., 67, 121. Fried, Emlékek városa, 68–69.

25 The holder of title of ban was the highest dignitary in the Kingdom of Croatia-Slavonia. In the Middle Ages, the ban was the equivalent of a viceroy. In the dualist period the bans functioned as quasi prime ministers. They were appointed by the king based on the suggestion and under the condition of the approval of the Hungarian prime minister. A controversial figure of the era was ban Khuen-Héderváry (1883–1903), often considered a great modernizer as well as an oppressor of Croatian nation-building initiatives.

26 Cited in Kolar, “Senjska trgovačko-obrtnička komora,” 163–64, my italics.

27 On the narrative which proclaimed Fiume the display city of Hungarian modernization and dubbed the city “the most beautiful pearl in the crown of Saint Stephen,” see Eszik, “A magyar–horvát tengermellék.”

28 Other authors who deal with the same problems and work with roughly the same mental maps are Milutin Cihlar Nehajev (his novel Bijeg [Escape] is of particular interest), Milan Ogrizović, and Josip Draženović. The famous August Šenoa was also inspired by Senj’s glorious military past and allure of resistance against foreign forces (Čuvaj se senjske ruke [Beware of hands from Zengg]).

29 Čuljat, “Podgorje u pripovjednomu modelu Vjenceslava Novaka,” 438. There is another Croatian word which means the same thing (“županijski”), so this use of this cognate from Hungarian was not a matter of linguistic necessity.

30 Novak, Pavao Šegota, 133.

31 Čuljat, “Podgorje u pripovjednomu modelu Vjenceslava Novaka,” 439.

32 “[…] ‘Hurry’ as much as speed is intrinsic to modernity. We cannot conceive of modern society and modern capitalism without invoking, not just speed, but the desire for speeding-up, the fears and anxieties associated with acceleration […]” Mackintosh et al., Architectures of Hurry, 2. For a contemporary perception of the phenomenon, see Simmel, “The Metropolis and Mental Life.”

33 Novak, Posljednji Štipančići, 25.

34 A monograph has been published on Senj’s rich history in civil organizations: Brlić, Lička i senjska građanska društva.

35 Radetić, “Senj kakav je negda bio,” 20. The Radiša circle partly blamed the agitations provoked by the Party of Rights for the dissent, so it was not considered a radically oppositional organ of the press. Kolar, “Senjanin Josip Gržanić,” 5.

36 Radetić, “Senj kakav je negda bio,” 20.

37 Cited in Kolar, “Senjska trgovačko-obrtnička komora,” 165 (my italics).

38 Ordasi offers a presentation of the problems discussed in the paper, as well as a summary of the source. Ordasi, “Egy betiltott kisebbségi lap,” 76–77.

39 Mumford, The City in History, 446–15.

40 Housing blocks for workers were built in the new industrial port district, but not to such an extent that they formed exclusively workers’ neighborhoods, all the more so because of the fact that, due to the lack of space, industrial and representative functions highly overlapped in the new urban landscape. On this specific urban planning see Zucconi, Una città cosmopolita.

41 Bourillon, “La détestation de la ville.”

42 Gáspár, A Föld körül VI, 9.

43 Vranješ-Šoljan, Stanovništvo gradova Banske Hrvatske, 103.

44 Despot, “Tvornica duhana u Senju,” 412.

45 Vranješ-Šoljan, Stanovništvo gradova Banske Hrvatske, 43. In contrast with the earlier county regulations (1870, 1874), this transformation was the subject of considerable discussion, as ban Károly Khuen-Héderváry followed political considerations and decided in favor of the reform in order to ensure electoral victories for the governing party. The county reports, which are held in the State Archives in Zagreb (Hrvatski Državni Arhiv), begin only with the reports from 1894.

46 The Chamber continuously came up with new solutions to the problems concerning traffic, which can be found in the archives of the Hungarian Ministry of Trade (MNL OL K 228). The requests which were sent to the Maritime Authority include one alleging an unfair competitive advantage for state-subsidized steam shipping companies (MNL OL K 228 70018/1892). One also finds a proposal of a Senj company to take over the transport of mail between Fiume and Senj for state aid (MNL OL K 228 58602/1893). The chamber calls for the restoration of the status of the city as a free port and for support for the use of sailing ships in commerce alongside steamships (MNL OL K 228 39583/1893), etc.

47 Kolar, “Senjska trgovačko-obrtnička komora,” 160.

48 The chamber law was the Sixth Act of 1868 in Hungary and the Eighth Act of 1868 in Croatia.

49 The Military Frontier was a territory which served as a defense zone against incursions of the Ottoman Empire. The zone, which had special privileges and duties, was created in the sixteenth century and was abolished once the Ottoman threat became minor.

50 Kolar, “Senjska trgovačko-obrtnička komora,” 153–55.

51 Szávay, A magyar kamarai intézmény, 441.

52 One finds a request singed by Cihlar for, among other things, the deepening of the Senj port and the conversion of areas around the shore to firm land (MNL OL K 228 84102/1891), but the Maritime Authority also entrusted him with the task of preparing a comprehensive report on sea fishing (MNL OL K 228 38809/1894).

53 Cihlar’s suggestions are included in Kolar, “Senjska trgovačko-obrtnička komora,” 169–74. Cited on p. 169.

54 Cited in Kolar, “Senjska trgovačko-obrtnička komora,” 170.

55 Schorske, “The Ringstrasse,” 29–31.

56 Walker, German Home Towns; Volkov, The Rise of Popular Antimodernism in Germany.

57 For short biographies of Senj’s bishops, see Bogović, “Moji predšasnici biskupi,” 140–49.

58 “Izvještaj senjske trgovačke-obrtničke komore,” Novi List, August 1, 1903, 1.

59 On the importance of this satellite city see Kirchner Reill, The Fiume Crisis, 27–29.

60 The struggle is described in detail, from the first proposal made by engineer Kajetan Knezić in 1829 to 1941, in Kolar, “Senjska željeznica.” Senj also offered alternative proposals after the handover of the Fiume railway, mainly thanks to the efforts of Sebald Cihlar, secretary of the Chamber of Commerce, who called for the construction of a line that would connect Senj and Bihac and thus the coast and Bosnia after the occupation of the latter. As is well known, in the case of Bosnia-Herzegovina, the concept of a Budapest-centered railway network prevailed, and in the end, Budapest was connected to Sarajevo via Brod.

61 The most comprehensive work on the Party of Rights is Gross, Izvorno pravaštvo.

62 Turkalj, “Pravaški pokret u brinjskom kraju,” 408–9.

63 Ibid., 419–24.

64 On this infamously dramatic scene but also, more importantly, on Gržanić’s entire political career, see Kolar, “Senjanin Josip Gržanić.”

65 Kolar, “Senjanin Josip Gržanić,” 8.

66 The disturbances broke out following the violation of the Hungarian-Croatian Settlement of 1868 by Antal Dávid, head of the Zagreb Financial Directorate, who placed bilingual (Croatian and Hungarian) signs on the facade of the Directorate’s building in Zagreb instead of the existing, exclusively Croatian ones. The uprising mirrored general dissatisfaction with Hungarian dominance. See Pavličević, Narodni pokret 1883.

67 Pavličević, “Senj u narodnom pokretu,” 38–39. Krajacz’s career was shaped in no small part by the fact that his financial interests lay in Fiume, not Senj.

68 Ibid., 41.

2021_4_Mihalik

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The Making of a Catholic Parish in Eighteenth-Century Hungary: Competing Interests, Integration, and Interference

Béla Vilmos Mihalik
Research Centre for the Humanities
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Hungarian Historical Review Volume 10 Issue 4  (2021):675-705 DOI 10.38145/2021.4.675

In this essay the potentials for political interaction among local communities will be examined through parish organization in the century following the expulsion of the Ottomans from the territory of Hungary, i.e. the period referred to as late confessionalization (1681–1781). Roughly 150 years of Ottoman occupation had wreaked havoc on the parish network, which was reorganized over the course of the eighteenth century. Village communities took the initiative to establish parishes, but as they did so, the clashing interests of the Catholic Church, the landlords, and the state had to be addressed and negotiated. The dynamics of this process and the ways in which the local communities were able to assert their specific needs should therefore be discussed. The complexity of often divergent interests and aims compelled the communities to devise cautious means of communicating with the competing groups, and it also helped further the internal integration of the local societies and the integration of these communities into church and secular structures. However, growing state influence made abundantly clear that the roles of the church administration and the parishes would soon undergo slow but meaningful change.

Keywords: late confessionalization, parishes, local communities, community politics, integration

Introduction

In the eighteenth century, after the Treaty of Karlowitz and the end of the Ottoman occupation (1541–1699), it was finally possible to begin reorganizing the administrative structures of the Kingdom of Hungary. At the local level, one of the most important stages in this process was the establishment of Catholic parishes, since the parish, as an institution, played a central role in the integration of smaller communities into the larger networks of secular and ecclesiastical government. Once new settlers arrived in areas which essentially had been left desolate by conflict and flight and the network of settlements had been reestablished, the country bore witness to the rapid foundation of new parishes. This essay focuses in particular on the moment of parish foundation in order to shed light on local developments in the larger process of Catholic reorganization. In the following discussion I examine how the local community was able to communicate its needs and aspirations within the web of often competing interests which emerged around the foundation of a parish.

The period under examination, which began with the religious articles of the Diet of Sopron 1681 and came to an end with the Edict of Toleration of Joseph II in 1781, is considered the century of late confessionalization in Hungary by András Forgó.1 One might well have been tempted, therefore, to analyze the aforementioned questions within the familiar theory of confessionalization presented by Wolfgang Reinhard and Heinz Schilling.2 However, in this article I argue that the case of Hungary provides good support for criticisms of this paradigm.3 First, the late developments of confessionalization in eighteenth-century Hungary prove the untenability of chronological definitions, which typically put the end of the confessionalization at the time of the Peace of Westphalia.4 The other principal criticism was the exaggerated role of the state. Micro-historical studies have shown the active role played by local communities, as confessionalization took place in areas where there was no strong state power. Even when the state was present, its aspirations could only be achieved when they overlapped with the expectations of local communities.5

In case of eighteenth-century Hungary, Zoltán Gőzsy and Szabolcs Varga came to similar findings in their research on the diocese of Pécs. Gőzsy and Varga demonstrated that the communities played a very active role in the consolidation of the post-Ottoman period and successfully articulated their specific local interests to the higher ecclesiastical, state, and landlord levels.6 Their research, however, relied on descriptive, often generalizing, serial sources produced by the Catholic Church, for instance, the church visitation records. Thus, they examined the communities through the lens of an external observer, the higher church authority. Although Gőzsy’s and Varga’s conclusions concerning the role of local society were convincing, I approach the topic from a different point of view. The goal of this essay to describe the internal and external dynamics of the local village communities, challenging the excessive top-down, state and church power perspective of the confessionalization thesis.

Highlighting the role of communities, one should consider the phenomena of communalism, a fruitful concept introduced by Peter Blickle.7 Although Blickle stressed the importance of both rural and urban communities in the spread of the Reformation, case studies proved again the limits of their influence and the various grades of their dependency.8 Thus, the complexity of the concept of community is a reason for caution. Instead of over-generalizing the notion, it is better to focus on the internal dynamics of the community.9 The variety of internal and external interactions and the forms of political communication used within and by communities offer the potentially different approaches. The “politics of parish,” in Keith Wrightson’s approach, could include many elements of communication: gossip, rumors, symbolic acts, forms of exclusion, inclusion, etc. The individual smaller components of the community and the interactions among them could have a major influence on the external, political space of the community.10 In the case of Hungary, Dániel Bárth focuses primarily on the conflict between the lower clergy and their communities in the early modern period. His recent studies, however, go beyond this, addressing several considerations about the local (horizontal) fields of power structures and communication with the (vertical) ecclesiastical and secular hierarchies, offering a more complex image of the functions of the parish in the lives of village communities.11

The concept and function of the parish changed a lot in the Middle Ages and early modern times in Hungary. The first king, Saint Stephen I, in addition to the establishment of the first bishoprics, placed great emphasis on the founding of parishes. In his second law-code, he ordered that every ten villages should build a church and provide these churches with various benefits in kind. The king provided the vestments and altar cloths, and the bishop provided the priests and the books.12 By the fourteenth century, parishes had often been transformed into donated benefices, where a substitute clergyman appointed by the beneficed provided the actual pastoral care.13 This was accompanied by the separation of different types of parishes. The titles of parish priest (plebanus) and parish (plebania) were reserved for a narrow, privileged part of parishes. This distinguished them from the ordinary parochial churches (ecclesia parochialis) and their priests (rector ecclesiae, sacerdos) without prerogatives. Although privileges were not lost, by the early fifteenth century, the title of parish and parish priest had been extended to all congregations and their priests.14

The exact size of the Catholic parish network in the Middle Ages is not known, but it is estimated that by the mid-sixteenth century, as much as 60–70 percent of it may have been destroyed as a result of the Reformation and the Ottoman conquest. By 1600, this figure had risen to 90 percent.15 The reorganization took around two centuries. The Catholic renewal marked by Cardinal Péter Pázmány (1570–1637), archbishop of Esztergom, in the first half of the seventeenth century built up the institutional system (seminaries, schools, university) on which the Catholic Church could rely to strengthen itself again in the territories ruled by the Habsburgs.16 However, the violent counterreformation in the last third of the century was so overwhelming that the number of the newly occupied Protestant churches exceeded the number of available Catholic parish priests. In a situation which escalated into a religious civil war, the Habsburg rulers and the Catholic prelates were forced to make concessions. Protestants were granted limited religious freedom at the Diet of Sopron in 1681. In the western part of the country, religious practice was permitted only in certain settlements, the so-called articular places, and several other restrictions were imposed. A 1691 royal decree (Explanatio Leopoldina) which explained the law in detail further restricted these rights, confirming the jurisdiction of the Catholic clergy over Protestant congregations.17

Following the expulsion of the Ottomans, the Treaty of Karlowitz (1699) and the Rákóczi War of Independence (1703–1711), the parish network underwent a huge development in the eighteenth century, which is clearly reflected in the following diocesan data.18

Diocese

Early eighteenth century

Late eighteenth century

Bishopric of Eger

1715: 72 parishes

1786: 328 parishes

Archdiocese of Kalocsa

1733: 17 parishes

1763: 58 parishes

Bishopric of Veszprém

1710: 20 parishes

1777: 185 parishes

 

This process was also supported by the secular government, notably through the Royal Council of Lieutenancy, which was established in 1723. Within this government body, two committees dealt mainly with ecclesiastical matters. The Religious Affairs Committee was responsible for the observance of the Sopron Articles of Religion of 1681 and the religious practices of Protestants.19 The Clergymen’s Fund (Cassa Parochorum), on the other hand, financed the salaries of Catholic parish priests, the establishment of new parishes, and the construction of churches. When the Fund was established in 1733 by Charles III, a royal decree stipulated that the income of a parish priest had to be at least 150 forints a year, in addition to the incomes from fees and parish lands. Parish priests whose annual income did not reach this minimum received additional state subsidies from the Fund. This minimum wage provided them with a modest standard of living, but one worthy of their profession. The royal decree also encouraged the creation of new parishes, therefore a country-wide census of parishes was carried out, diocese by diocese. On the basis of the surveys and other proposals and petitions submitted by the bishops to the Fund, the Council of Lieutenancy had to make suggestions concerning the construction of new churches and parishes or the renovation of old ones.20

As an institution, the parish was more than a simple, geographically defined, territorial ecclesiastical administrative unit. It was also a community of believers living in a defined area and headed by a priest, the parish priest. At the center of the parish, in the mother church (mater), was the parish church, where the parish priest lived, but the parish could also include one or more daughter churches (filia). The choice of the parish priest was determined by the practice of patron’s right, which had been developed and refined over the course of the centuries. The landlord-patron suggested his own candidate or, if he didn’t have a candidate, a person recommended by the bishop (recommendatio) was presented by the landlord to the same prelate in writing (praesentatio). The bishop ordered the investiture, which was performed by the dean of the area (investitura and installatio).21

Although many municipalities in the Middle Ages won the right to elect their own parish priests,22 this was limited by the time of the Catholic Revival in the early modern period. Unlike in Carinthia and southern Germany,23 however, the community was not completely excluded from controlling the parish. This was due to a complex economy based on a system of allowances paid by the community for the pastoral work of the parish priest. In the eighteenth century, this was supplemented by the parish’s lending function.24 Typically, the churchwarden (aedituus; egyházbíró) was chosen from among the village aldermen, and he played an important role in overseeing the management of the church’s finances and in preparing the annual accounts. These accounts were also audited by the village magistrate. Churchwardens also had a role in collecting and administering parish revenues. The schoolmaster, who was often also the cantor and organist, was under the supervision of the parish priest, but as an educated man, he very often became the village notary and thus a member of the local lay council.25

The study focuses less on conflicts and more on the tools of the struggle for the parish. Therefore, three key factors, specifically competing interests, local integration, and possible hindrances and interference will be discussed. The foundation of parishes will be discussed through examples from the dioceses of Veszprém and Eger. The two dioceses bore important similarities. A significant part of both had fallen under Ottoman occupation in the sixteenth century and, after some initial events, it was only with the expulsion of the Ottomans that the reorganization of the church became possible in the eighteenth century. In both dioceses, there were significant population movements. New communities were created, and in parallel with this, there was an explosion in the creation of new parishes. In addition to the vast body of secondary literature on the history of both dioceses, the essay uses as sources parish documents preserved in the diocesan archives, primarily petitions submitted by the communities and testimonies.

Interests

Below, I consider the interests which lay behind the foundation of parishes from the perspectives of the different actors involved. Clearly, one should consider first the needs of the local community. As Christine Tropper has pointed out in her study of parishes in Carinthia, one of the most common reasons given in petitions for the establishment of a new parish was the physical distance of the community from the mother church, i.e. from the site where church services were held.26 Poor roads, bad weather, and geographical obstacles made it difficult to maintain contact between daughter churches and parishes. One finds frequent reference to precisely these reasons in the Hungarian examples. The inhabitants of Alattyán, which belonged to the diocese of Eger and was pastored by the Premonstratensian monastery of Jánoshida, on the far side of the Zagyva River, offered a vivid description of the difficulties they faced. It was difficult to maintain ties between the two communities, because “when there are floods, which are sometimes frequent, sometimes occasional, it can take five or six days to get there.” This was an obstacle to the work of the local pastor, of course, and the people of Alattyán experienced “many shortages in spiritual things” because of the difficulties posed simply by transportation. Finally, in 1748, when Easter mass was almost cancelled due to a flood, the village asked the Bishop of Eger to establish an independent parish.27

Alongside geographical distance, the apparent indifference of a parish priest to the members of his fold could also be a factor. The parish priest in Dorogháza, for example, kept to himself so much that the local community found it difficult to get him to baptize their children or go to the bedside of the dying, which in the case of members of the fold who lived in more distant communities was almost impossible.28 The difficulties faced by people living in villages distant from a mother church in getting the pastoral services often prompted members of these communities to seek to establish separate parishes and obtain their own parish priests.

Apart from the parishes that were created when discontent daughter churches sought to break away from the mother parishes, new parishes were often very quickly founded on recently resettled areas. After the Ottoman occupation, new settlements were established, and new parishes were organized on the sites of villages which had been destroyed. This is striking because the establishment of parishes put a heavy burden on the community. A church and a parish house had to be built, money had to be found to cover the annual salary and maintenance costs of the priest, the salaries of the parish staff (cantor, sacristan) had to be paid, and a building had to be provided for the school and the schoolmaster’s house. Most of these buildings were available in a filiate parish that wanted to break away from the mother church. In the newly founded villages, however, they often had to be built. Even if the remains of a medieval church which had been destroyed during the period of Ottoman occupation survived, the ruined edifice needed almost complete renovation and rebuilding.

The fact that so many parishes were founded (and as noted above, this required a significant financial sacrifice from the new community) is also striking in part because many of the population movements were motivated by the economic challenges faced in the original settlements. Towards the end of the 1710s, the economic situation in Jászapáti was becoming increasingly difficult “because of the growth of the population and the scarcity of land,” and this led to social tensions.29 In 1719, to resolve the growing tensions, farmers from Jászapáti began to settle in Kunszentmárton, a town in the region to the east of the Tisza River that had been destroyed by the Ottomans. The new community was able to establish a parish in only two years, i.e. very quickly. It was very important because Kunszentmárton became the first Catholic parish in a region in which the Calvinist Church held sway, and thus the Catholic Church managed to break into what before had been essentially a homogeneous Protestant block. The importance of this parish became clear in the second half of the century, when the Catholic community in Kunszentmárton became the basis for the establishment of Catholic institutions in the surrounding Calvinist settlements.30

The church authorities thus had a fundamental interest in the establishment of the parish. In most cases, if the local circumstances were considered appropriate, they supported and initiated the process of founding the new parish. For the diocese, the most important prerequisite was that the community have adequate resources to meet the requirements listed above (to provide a salary and housing for the parish priest and wages for the parish staff). In addition, if a former daughter church wanted to become an independent parish, the church authorities also had to consider the consequences this would have for the financial situation of the former mother parish and parish priest and whether the new parish could be established without endangering the old parish. Thus, even if the ecclesiastical authorities had an interest in expanding the parish network, they had to take into account an array of complex considerations affecting several communities.31

For the church leadership, the establishment of parishes could also be an issue which touched on denominational interests. Although the Sopron Articles of Religion of 1681 and the subsequent royal decrees allowed only limited religious practice among Protestant communities, these measures also constituted a hindrance to the Catholic counterreformation.32 The Catholic Church was only able to break up Protestant communities and establish Catholic institutions locally if it was able to work in cooperation with the landlords and the secular authorities. The Lutheran village of Iharosberény in the southern part of the diocese of Veszprém offers a good example. The Franciscans of Kanizsa provided pastoral services for the small number of Catholics in the settlement in a small chapel next to the manor house of the local landlord, Boldizsár Inkey. As early as 1746, Bishop of Veszprém Márton Biró Padányi contacted Inkey in order to inquire about the possibility of bringing the local Lutheran religious services to an end. This took place during the canonical visitation of 1748, and in order to strengthen the position it had gained, the Catholic Church founded a parish in the village the following year.33

The aforementioned resettlement of the lands which had been left devasted by the Ottoman occupation was unquestionably one of the most significant processes of post-Turkish reconstruction. The landlords, who were eager to see their estates resettled and their lands tilled, realized that the foundation of parishes would facilitate the peaceful development, growth, and strengthening of the community. In the region of southern Transdanubia, for example, the reestablishment of the network of settlements and the revitalization of the church went almost hand in hand. The landlords gave priority to the centers of their estates, and where necessary, they used their manorial administration to quicken the foundation of new parishes. The Esterházy family, for example, instructed their officers to supervise the parish priests and the management of the parishes in order to ensure their smooth development, while at the same time insisting that they cooperate with the clergy.34

In some cases, the interests identified above intertwined. Balatoncsicsó was home to Calvinist members of the petty nobility who rented the land around the village from the landlord, the Bishop of Veszprém. The establishment of a new Catholic parish in that village was a direct consequence of the economic reform of the bishopric’s estates, the aim of which was to restructure individual contracts in order to increase the incomes. The bishopric probably hoped to achieve several goals at once in Balatoncsicsó. In 1753, the aforementioned Márton Biró Padányi, as bishop of the area, lord lieutenant of Veszprém county and landlord, forbade the Calvinists of Balatoncsicsó from practicing their religion, adding that if they disobeyed, the lease would be terminated and the petty nobles living in the village would have to move. The community appealed to the Royal Council of Lieutenancy, which also investigated the matter from an economic point of view. In other words, the Council sought to determine whether the eviction of the noble tenants and the arrival of new settlers would reduce or increase the state tax incomes. In 1754, the Calvinist nobles of Balatoncsicsó were finally forced to leave the village, and the bishop soon concluded a contract with the new Catholic settlers. As a result, the bishop’s income as landlord increased considerably. When the new settlers arrived, a Catholic parish was established.35 Two decades later, the parish of Balatoncsicsó included eleven surrounding villages as daughter churches.36

One comes across many other cases on church estates of events very similar to the developments in Balatoncsicsó.37 The bishop-landlords often achieved several aims. They were able to assert the denominational interests of the diocese in opposition to Protestant congregations and to extend their institutional system by establishing stable Catholic parishes in areas which they had previously been unable to reach. Furthermore, although they were largely unable to retain and convert the Calvinist populations, they were able to emerge from the situation with considerable economic advantages by bringing in new settlers and signing new landlord contracts.

We see that the Royal Council of Lieutenancy played an important role in the case of Balatoncsicsó, and this indicates that the state, i.e. the secular authority, was also concerned with the issues surrounding the establishment of parishes. Through the council, the secular authorities provided sustained and assured support for the expansion and strengthening of the parish network. The Clergymen’s Fund, mentioned in the introduction, was responsible for these matters within the organization of the Royal Council of Lieutenancy. Thus, through the Clergymen’s Fund, the state entered the reorganization of the parish network. The aim was clearly to create stable parishes with well-educated and well-paid parish priests. In 1732, one year before the creation of the Fund, the community of Jászladány petitioned their landlord and the Council of Lieutenancy to support the foundation of a local parish. It only succeeded two years later in 1734, with the financial support of the Clergymen’s Fund.

In contrast to the paradigm of confessionalization, the initiative seems to have been taken by the communities. The intention to found a parish easily met with the approval of the landlord, the church, and the state. Although all from different points of view, they supported the process and the local needs. However, none of the actors, including the community, would have been sufficient to establish the parish on its own. The internal need of the community was based on easier access to better pastoral services and, consequently, the provision of salvation. In the external communication with the ecclesiastical and secular authorities, this need was most often complemented by the need to overcome geographical barriers and distances.38 There were significant differences, however, in the envisioned roles of the parish in the lives of the local communities.

Integration

One can approach the question of parish renewal as a process of integration from several points of view. The individual and group relationships which were an intricately interwoven part of local society were constantly evolving through internal processes, as these relations had to be constantly molded depending on the specific situations that arose. At the same time, integration was also a matter of how and to what extent individuals or a small group of individuals could become part of the larger whole. This can be examined within the local community, of course, but also in the context of the relationship between local communities on the one hand and the secular or ecclesiastical authorities on the other. Thus, integration implies a kind of political communication, not only between the community and the representatives of the power above it, but also between the key actors within the community.39

These multi-directional interactions were crucial from the perspective of the foundation of new parishes, but the organizational processes hardly came to an end at the moment of the foundation of a new parish. With the creation of the new institution and the entry of the parish priest into the community, the relationship between the institution and the individual on the one hand and the community on the other had to be defined. The following discussion offers insights into this process of integration by drawing on some of the examples mentioned in the previous section and considering the main nodes of intersecting (and colliding) interests in parish organization.

The first of these nodes is the decision of the community itself. The initiative was usually taken by the community leaders. In the aforementioned village of Alattyán, after an Easter mass which had almost been cancelled, “the magistrates and several inhabitants, coming out of the church, gathered at the master’s house.” Thus, the leaders of the community appeared, or in other words, the magistrate and the aldermen, as well as the schoolmaster, who was probably also the local notary. These individuals were essentially the local elite. Later, however, a popular assembly was held at which “the people, gathered together, cried out the same thing, that yes, they too wanted a parish priest.” Thus, the idea of founding a parish was suggested by the community leaders, but they also had the support of the local population.40

Tarnaszentmiklós in Heves County was founded in 1751 by the farmers who were leaving the neighboring settlement of Pély, but Tarnaszentmiklós remained a daughter church of the parish of Pély for nearly thirty years. The people of Tarnaszentmiklós submitted their first application in the spring of 1779, which shows that they tried to lay the proper foundations for the establishment of the parish. They seem to have had a sense of community awareness and the necessary knowledge of the background of the parish.41 A building which would serve as the parish house had been built with the help of the landlord, i.e. the Eger Chapter, and efforts had already been made to generate parish income. They visited the neighboring settlement of Hevesvezekény for precisely this reason. Hevesvezekény was a daughter church of the market town of Heves, and it had a completely different social makeup. While Tarnaszentmiklós was a village of serfs, Hevesvezekény was a settlement of manorial servants. Thus, the Tarnaszentmiklós aldermen ended up “holding conference with the compossessor [landlord] of the neighboring Vezekény.” The serfs of Tarnaszentmiklós had to persuade the landlords of Hevesvezekény to join forces and support the establishment of a parish, with Hevesvezekény as the daughter church and Tarnaszentmiklós as the parish. This meant that the local community had to step out of its own social circle and had to negotiate with a socially superior stratum in the interests of achieving a common goal.

This brings us to the second node, which concerned the ways in which a local community communicated with the outside world on the issues surround the foundation of a new parish. A given community had to interact with higher levels of the ecclesiastical hierarchy. In the case of Tarnaszentmiklós, there is no precise information as to whether the lower ecclesiastical dignitary in the area, such as the dean or archdeacon, was contacted. It is true that the landlord of Tarnaszentmiklós was the Eger Chapter, and it appears from the petition submitted for the foundation of the parish that the community, by helping to build the parish house, had the support of the ecclesiastical body as landlord. This was emphasized in their petition to the bishop, but they also mentioned their discussion with the noble landlords of Hevesvezekény as an important element. The community of Tarnaszentmiklós may also have thought that their negotiations with the nobles would strengthen the validity of their request in the eyes of the bishop.

This was more difficult in the case of Alattyán, where the local community did not have the support of the landlord (i.e. the Premonstratensian monastery of Jánoshida), and indeed the parish was established against his wishes. However, even in this case, the most prestigious representatives of the community were asked to communicate with the bishopric. One of them was the schoolmaster, who was also the notary of the village, thus he was a key intellectual figure in the community. Another was Gergely Ivanics, head of the local noble family, who had lived in the village since birth and was one of the people who best knew the recent history of the village community, since he remembered, for example, the first parish in Alattyán, which had existed in the 1690s. Both his father and he were local churchwardens at one time, so this added to the prestige and, thus, authority he enjoyed. Their selection was symbolic, and it seems to have been a shrewd decision, because they did not go to the bishop’s court in Eger immediately, but rather went to the district dean in Jászapáti, and only after having obtained his support did they take their request to the bishop. This was a symbolic communicative gesture: the most respected members of the community, supported by the territorial mid-level church authority, personally took the village’s humble petition to the bishop.

Thus, they brought the petition before one of the highest possible ecclesiastical authorities, the diocesan bishop. As noted in the previous section, the diocese was seeking to expand the parish network, but it wanted to do so by founding stable, adequately prepared parishes. At the instructions of the bishop, the territorially competent deans therefore held inquiries in both Alattyán and Tarnaszentmiklós. It is telling and indeed reveals a great deal about the interests of the ecclesiastical authorities in ensuring stability that “my Lord the Vice Deacon came [to Alattyán] and summoned all the farmers, especially the better-off, together with all the judges and aldermen,” and had them sign a contract concerning the parish priest’s salary. In other words, he asked for a guarantee from the leaders of the parish and the wealthiest farmers, i.e. the local “elite,” on behalf of the church.

For this very reason, the dean’s first investigation in Tarnaszentmiklós was unsuccessful. In today’s terms, it could be referred to as an “impact assessment.” The dean contacted the parish priests of Heves and Pély to ask them whether their parishes would actually continue to function properly if the daughter churches (i.e. Hevesvezekény and Tarnaszentmiklós) were to be separated from them. He then also visited the villages which would be made part of the envisioned parish, the future mother parish (Tarnaszentmiklós) and its planned daughter parish (Hevesvezekény). For example, he accurately assessed the different social composition of Hevesvezekény: the community consisted of four serfs who worked the land and otherwise only manorial servants, and the local members of the nobility. These nobles shared commonly managed estates, and they were only part of the petty nobility (kurta nemesek), thus, they would be unable to provide support for the parish.

The dean’s negative assessment delayed the foundation of the parish, but it did not discourage the people of Tarnaszentmiklós. They seem to have resolved to make better and more strategic use of the community’s communication network. This meant, in part, more intensive discussions with the community in Hevesvezekény, but also with the community in Pély, which had already yielded some results. The people of Pély agreed to increase the salary of their own parish priest, and the poorer residents and nobles of Hevesvezekény also made more serious and concrete commitments. As a result, in the summer and autumn of 1780, a precise financial and economic plan was drawn up for each village, detailing where and how much agricultural land and what cash and in-kind commitments could be made to cover the costs of the priest’s salary. The successful work was probably facilitated by the fact that the community of Tarnaszentmiklós, which was made up of farmers from Pély, had close family ties in Pély. Furthermore, they had been in contact with the parish priest of Pély for 20 years, which, according to the documents that have survived, made it possible for the village to separate from Pély amicably.

At the other end of the country, in the diocese of Veszprém, the ecclesiastical authorities were conducting similar investigations concerning the possible establishment of the parish of Kővágóörs. Here, the situation was different (and involved different competing interests) because the parish had to be established in opposition to the local Protestant community, with a large number of filia. This may explain why, although the dean had already concluded his investigation in 1750, it took another five years for the parish to be founded.42 In these cases the Catholic Church was assessing the potential economic consequences of the establishment of a parish not as landlord, but from the perspective of an ecclesiastical authority. Its main aim was both to expand and stabilize the parish network.

The construction of the parish house in Alattyán, which was an important prerequisite for the establishment of a parish, also sheds light on the forms of internal cooperation within the community. However, since events in the village unfolded relatively quickly and the parish had to be established in the spite of the opposition of the landlord, the building was only erected after the parish priest had arrived. Pending the completion of the house, at the request of the people of Alattyán, the Heves County authorities agreed to provide accommodations for the parish priest in the county building in the village. The population of Alattyán consisted essentially of three major groups: the serfs of the Premonstratensian monastery of Jánoshida (they were the majority), the serfs of the Calvinist Recsky family, and the local nobles. The Premonstratensians opposed the establishment of the parish. The Calvinist landlord was indifferent to the issue. The only concrete step he had taken was to forbid his serfs from transporting the Premonstratensian canons from Jánoshida to Alattyán across the Zagyva River at their own expense and in their carts. The leader of the community was the aforementioned elderly nobleman Gergely Ivanics, who even remembered where the house of the parish priest had stood in the 1690s. The building had been destroyed, but the cellar had survived. The community started to build the new parish house here, but the Premonstratensian administrator, as landlord, forbade his serfs from Alattyán from taking part in the construction. The community therefore decided that the peasants and the serfs on the Recsky lands would start building the house, with the Premonstratensian serfs helping out in the evenings or on days when it was very unlikely that the landlord would take any steps to check on them. The establishment of the parish was a matter for the ecclesiastical authority, and the community had the support of the bishop in this respect. The serfs of the Premonstratensian monastery had to deal with the consequences they might face for having provoked the antipathies of the landlord, but in practice, the other two larger groups in the community provided them with protection.

Thus, with the establishment of the parish, a new institution appeared in these villages which was also a new factor in the cohesion and identity of the communities. The primary expectation of these communities is captured in the request made by the people of Tarnaszentmiklós that the Bishop “be merciful in creating a parish priest to comfort our souls.” In their request, the people of Alattyán noted that the parish priest would “be our consolation in secular and spiritual matters,” or in other words, they made specific reference to the role the parish priest would play in secular affairs. At the time, the parish priest was treated essentially as a member of the community. It was only at the end of the early modern era that the parish priest began to emerge and rise above the community due to the efforts of the church and the secular government.43 The community valued their parish priest and expected him to be both their spiritual (and even lay) leader, but also not to lose touch with the community and to abide by its “norms.” In a 1726 letter sent on behalf of their first parish priest, the parishioners of Pély, for instance, noted that “he lived with endurance among us, quietly and in peace.” The community knew full well that the stability of the parish was always fragile under the difficult local conditions, and they appreciated the fact that the parish priest was willing to live alongside them under modest circumstances and serve them.44

The parish was the crucible for a number of initiatives in the first period after its creation, and these initiatives further contributed to the internal and external integration of the local community. The religious confraternities that emerged in the village environment could become the primary form of community organization for local society. In Alattyán, by the 1740s, i.e. before the establishment of the parish, a local Confraternity of the Cord was set up by the Franciscans of Szolnok, which, in addition to overseeing various liturgical occasions (monthly mass, processions, etc.), also provided for the care of sick members of the society.45 In addition to strengthening the internal community networks, it also provided the locals with another external link to a nearby major settlement, Szolnok, and its important ecclesiastical institution, the Franciscan monastery. A local branch of the Society of Holy Mary, which had been founded in the neighboring market town of Jászapáti around 1700, was established in Pély in 1736, a good ten years after the local parish was created in the village.46

Integration, of course, was not simply an inclusive process. It was also an exclusive one, whereby elements deemed dangerous or alien to the community were pushed out, if this was considered necessary. These people were usually individuals who had come from other settlements and who did not adhere to the community’s norms. In some cases, this person was the parish priest himself or a member of the household which had come to the community with him. As noted above, in 1726, the people of Pély spoke highly of their parish priest, who kept a low profile among them. It was necessary for the people to speak out on his behalf because the maid at the parish house had claimed that she was bearing his child. The leaders of the community were united in standing up for the beleaguered priest on behalf of the community. The local magistrate, the cantor, the aldermen, and the head of the local petty nobility family signed the petition. Thus, the same key figures in the community played the crucial roles in this communicative process as had initiated the establishment of a parish in the case of Alattyán. It is clear from the letter that the maid who had made the accusation was not a member of the community, and the people of Pély emphasized that she was from Héhalom, and thus from another county and diocese. The parish priest allegedly had admonished the woman in vain, sometimes with quiet words, sometimes with harsher reprimands, but she did not forsake her “many regularly bad ethics,” and “there was a time when for a whole month she went to and for in rakish disgrace.”47 The case ended up coming before the bishop’s court, however, and the parish priest ultimately broke down and admitted that he had indeed had an immoral affair with the woman and was thus unworthy of his priestly vocation, but he insisted that he had not impregnated her. With the removal of the parish priest, Pély was briefly returned to its former mother church, Heves, and the community was right to fear that the unpleasant affair might result in the loss of their parish. This presumably was why they had been willing to overlook the priest’s conduct.

A similar incident took place twenty years later in nearby Jászladány. As was mentioned above, the local parish was established in 1734 at the initiative of the local community, with the financial support of the Clergymen’s Fund. Mihály Árvay, a highly qualified priest, was appointed to serve as the second parish priest in 1743, but he quickly ended up in conflict with the community. He embezzled from the church treasury, bought luxury goods, and behaved boorishly with the parish leadership and the parishioners. His most serious transgressions, however, were of a sexual nature. The testimony of the witnesses reveals that one of the parish priest’s first lovers was a local Roma woman, who was driven from the village under this pretext. The woman had cursed the village, saying, “rot in hell for driving me out, for the whole village knows that the priest does the same.” However, it was easier for the community to expel the Roma woman, who was on the periphery of local society, than to start a long process of ecclesiastical proceedings that would imperil the very existence of the parish and would have implications far beyond the local community. The moment the parish priest tried to take advantage of a prominent member of the community (the midwife) or of individuals related to the local leaders, however, the village reacted and informed the ecclesiastical authorities, using the channels of communication discussed above. The community took these measures in spite of the fact that the parish itself was relatively new. In Jászladány, the parish did not cease to exist, but the bishop appointed only a deputy parish priest, who was only installed three years later.48

As the examples above show, the communities were aware of the prerequisites for the establishment of a parish, and they used the related communication channels carefully and strategically. This of course meant going beyond the internal space of the community itself, i.e. the space of local politics. When necessary, they responded by sharing tasks within the community, and they stood up against individuals who potentially threatened their efforts and against other exterior hindrances to their goals through the actors who embodied the unity of the community itself. This indicates that the community was very much aware of its strengths and possibilities, and it was also well-informed about the procedures before ecclesiastical and secular authorities. This enabled the village community to achieve its goals and made it possible for grassroots initiatives to succeed. To this end, they were ready to engage in internal discussions and negotiations, which could mean both exclusion and inclusion. Through internal community integration and external integration into the secular and ecclesiastical structures, they were also able to solve the problems that hindered the establishment of the parish.

Hindrances and Interference

As the discussion above shows, the process of establishing a parish depended on a number of issues, and in order for a parish to be founded, several factors had to come together. The process was made all the more complex by the fact that in many cases various hindrances arose, sometimes from unexpected sources of opposition. In the discussion below I will examine a few of the most important phenomena which either made the creation of a parish additionally complex or hindered it altogether.

One of the most common sources of opposition was the entirely predictable resistance from Protestant communities. The above examples show that even in the best cases (when the community enjoyed the support of the ecclesiastical authorities and the landlord and there was an existing local Catholic minority), it was difficult to establish parishes in Protestant or mixed communities. Jászkisér, the only Calvinist settlement in the Jászság region, offers a good example of this. Several successive bishops tried to establish a parish in Jászkisér using different means. In 1701, a parish priest was installed in cooperation with the secular authority (the administration under the palatine) and the ecclesiastical authority (the Bishop of Eger), but less than half a year later, the local women chased the priest from the village, loading him and his household on a cart and sending him to the neighboring Catholic town of Jászapáti. Almost four decades later, in the wake of the plague epidemic of 1739–1740, the authorities wanted to settle Catholics on plots of land which had been left vacant so that the larger Catholic community could be used as a justification for founding a parish in the village. The Calvinists of the settlement, however, poured water mixed with cow manure into grape-picking buckets and used them to block the village street so that they would be able to pour the contents on any Catholics who were to arrive in the village. It was only in 1769 that a parish was finally established in the village, but the diocese of Eger was unable to rid the settlement of Calvinists.49

In the case of the secular landlords, as noted above, following the expulsion of the Ottomans, they were mainly interested in the settlement of their estates and the rapid launch of production in the fields, and they usually established Catholic parishes in central settlements of their estates. At the same time, if the settlement consisted exclusively of Protestants, they were also careful to ensure that the Protestants could continue to practice their religion, and they were willing to confront both the ecclesiastical and secular authorities in order to do this.50 This is striking because in the seventeenth century the Catholic nobility was still the main driving force behind counterreformation efforts in Hungary. Furthermore, agricultural production was the primary consideration for the ecclesiastical landlords too, the examples cited above of the bishoprics of Eger and Veszprém notwithstanding. The administrator of the Teutonic Order that held the landlord’s rights of the Jászság region, noted with incisive mockery about Bishop Gábor Antal Erdődy of Eger that the bishop was more than happy to tolerate Calvinism when it was in his own private interests (i.e. when it was in his interests as a landlord), while at the same time he would stand up in fervent opposition to Calvinists on other estates, completely ignoring the interests of other landlords.51

Much as in the case of the Teutonic Knights in Jászság, in Alattyán (a case to which I have now referred several times as an example), the Premonstratensian order was also an ecclesiastical landlord. Although the village was Catholic, the Premonstratensian canons of Jánoshida did not support the establishment of a parish there. This was presumably because there was little or no separation between the functions of the landlord and the church in the case of the Premonstratensian monks of Jánoshida. Obviously, the loss of ecclesiastical income from Alattyán affected them, even if they maintained their power as landlords. Nevertheless, they opposed the parish establishment of 1748 so vigorously that the Bishop of Eger was forced to bring the matter before the Primate-Archbishop of Esztergom, and in 1754, a decision was made in favor of the diocese and the community of Alattyán.52 This example also shows that, in principle, even in the face of strong opposition (in this case, from the landlord), people pursuing a local initiative from within the community could prevail even when their case was brought before the highest ecclesiastical forums if they could win the support of the right parties (in this case, the diocesan bishop).

A similar conflict arose between the bishop of Veszprém and the Cistercian abbot of Zirc over the establishment of the parish of Magyarpolány. This case was made distinctive by the fact that before the establishment of the parish, the church authorities and the ecclesiastical landlord had to take coordinated action against the religious practices of the local Calvinist congregation. Once the parish had been established, however, a dispute broke out as to whether it was under the jurisdiction of the diocese or the Cistercian abbey. The local Calvinist community, furthermore, tried to take advantage of the tension between the two former allies and appealed to the Royal Council of Lieutenancy to ensure their right to practice their faith. Thus, the Cistercian abbot had to defend his acts even before the secular authorities.53

As the examples above illustrate, the most important thing for the dioceses was the creation of stable parishes. However, in the eighteenth century, after the expulsion of the Ottomans, the dioceses had to take many other factors concerning the reorganization of the Church and church life into consideration. The synods and visitations, which were the cornerstones of internal renewal, consumed a great deal of energy, time, and resources, as did the reform of instruction for the priesthood, the reorganization of education, the maintenance of social institutions, the construction of the episcopal seat, and the restoration of episcopal estates. The establishment of parishes was sometimes relegated to the background, not because it was unimportant, but because the diocese had to ensure the necessary conditions (including, for instance, a sufficient number of adequately trained priests). In the diocese of Veszprém, for example, in the 1730s, the bishop was compelled to exercise caution, since he recognized the complications that would arise as a consequence of the poverty of the parishes. He also recognized that the church was facing a shortage of priests in part because of the comparatively rapid foundation of new parishes in the earlier period and in part because many of the members of the priesthood had aged. The process of parish establishment gathered momentum in the 1740s, and by the early 1760s, the diocese’s parish network was so thick that only a few areas were still in need of further development. The bishop’s attitude may also have changed. There were periods when the emphasis was on areas closer to the bishopric seat, while at other times, attempts were made to build up the parish network in areas more densely populated by Protestants.54

These kinds of considerations, which varied from diocese to diocese and from bishop to bishop, may well also have influenced the intensity of the process of parish creation. Thus, even if there was a demand from the community for the establishment of a local parish and even if the necessary preparations had been made, the bishop at the head of the diocese could hamper or block these local initiatives, depending on his ecclesiastical policy objectives and the more general, broader picture of the situation in the diocese.

Conclusions

The process of parish establishment in the eighteenth century forms a different picture than the Catholic renewal in the seventeenth century, a picture in which the growing importance of communities is vividly clear. Earlier, the church, the state, and the landlords had essentially cooperated against Protestant communities (if admittedly at times with tensions and hiccups). After 1681 and particularly in the eighteenth century, these actors were pursuing a much more diverse range of objectives. This led to increasingly frequent clashes of interests, which, while not necessarily preventing or interrupting the general process of the establishment of new parishes, did at times slow it down or break it up into several successive phases of greater and lesser intensity. It was also an era in which the initiative taken by village communities became more visible. The period of peace that followed the end of the Rákóczi War of Independence (1711) helped strengthen local society, and the consolidation of ecclesiastical and secular government structures enabled proactive communication.

The dramatic growth in the numbers of new parishes is striking in part because in nearby areas which could be seen as parallels from other perspectives one finds a very different trend. Studies show stable parish numbers in Carinthia and the territory of the diocese of Constance, with rare instances in which new local parishes were founded (and this process was hampered by considerable difficulties). In the Hereditary Provinces under Habsburg rule, a new wave of parish foundation began only in the last third of the eighteenth century as a consequence of the aims of Josephine ecclesiastical policy.55 Clearly, the explanation for the dramatic rise in the number of new parishes in Hungary may well lie in the large-scale destruction of the parish network during the period of Ottoman occupation and the delayed recreation and reorganization of the parish network.

While the process of parish foundation may have been considerably more restrained in the German-speaking areas than it was in Hungary, there were still some significant similarities in the initiatives that were taken. Communities in the German lands were also proactive, even if they had to use different strategies and methods to achieve their goals. The distribution of ecclesiastical jurisdictions was very different from the development of the church in Hungary, with monastic orders and ecclesiastical institutions in many places annexing beneficies on which the local communities could have founded their parishes. Thus, they often had to restructure their finances in a manner that would allow them to free up at least enough income from each local ecclesiastical benefice to create a position for a chaplain or a curate. In order to do this, of course, they had to use their network of contacts and gain the support of individuals in the various institutional structures, or in other words, they had to mobilize their political toolbox.56 The Hungarian communities were not lacking in these tools, and the examples presented above show how shrewdly and strategically they were able to use them.

In exceptional cases, such as the foundation of a parish in Alattyán or the accusations brought against the parish priest in Jászladány, one discerns indications of the use of the more elusive tools of local politics, such as gossip, threats, public gestures, and symbols. Catholic communities fighting to persuade the church to establish a parish had to use other means of communication with the authorities, of course, such as petitions, envoys, and the mobilization of supporters from higher and more influential social strata.57 The foundation of a new parish sheds light on the interactions among different small subgroups within a community and the construction of elements of collective identity (e.g. the memory of the old parish).58 It is also clear that the existence of a local parish constituted a source prestige for a village. Further examination of these experiences will foster a more subtle understanding of what a parish meant to a given community, in addition to the functions it served for the state and the church.

If we consider the individual local cases from a slightly more distant perspective, even over a longer time span and in a comparative context with other cases, we get a sense not only of the political-communication tools used by the community but also the wider field of “parish politics.” The ongoing changes in local social relations can be further grasped if we embed them in the structures of the world defined by the triad of landlord, the church, and secular power. Tropper, for example, suggests that the spread of literacy and administration strengthened the role of the power of the landlord in the lives of local communities to such a dramatic extent that these communities began to be excluded from the control of their parish.59 Although the social order in Hungary may have developed differently in this respect, Zoltán Gőzsy has also convincingly outlined how the state attempted to redefine the role of church administration and, within it, the roles of parishes in terms of social policy objectives.60 However, Keith Wrightson has argued, considering precisely these kinds of changes and what came in their wake, that although the higher powers (state or church) had incomparably greater means to impose their will, even this seemingly overwhelming power had its local limits. The local power structure was able to adapt to the efforts of the state and church to assert their will, since even strong power from above required the cooperation of key local actors. This in turn made it possible for communities to maintain local spaces of power where they could continue to use their own specific political tools.61

In the eighteenth century, following initials shifts in the seventeenth century, the influence of the state on parish organization became more and more pronounced in Hungary. This was due in no small part to the various efforts of the Clergymen’s Fund in the foundation of new parishes. Due to the parish census of 1733, which covered the whole country, the richness of the records of the Fund’s activities is unprecedented. A longer-term aim could be to examine the history and the registry of the Council of Lieutenancy over a longer period of time to shed light on the growth of state influence through parish organization and the reactions of local communities to these measures. By taking into account regional changes in landlord and church power, this kind of research would provide deeper insight into the changing political opportunities for the communities within ever shifting frameworks.

Archival Sources

Egri Főegyházmegyei Levéltár [Archdiocesal Archive of Eger] (EFL)

Archivum Vetus

nr. 14. Alattyániensis ecclesia

nr. 764. Árvay Michaelem respicientia

nr. 1097. Ferenczfy Franciscum respicientia

nr. 1746. Pélyiensis parochiae divisionem

Visitationes Canonicae

nr. 3414. Districtus Heves 1746

Veszprémi Főegyházmegyei Levéltár [Archdiocesal Archive of Veszprém] (VFL)

I.1.8. Visitationes Canonicae

Districtus Zaladiensis 1778

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Mihalik, Béla Vilmos. “A veszprémi püspökség birtokigazgatása a 18. században, különös tekintettel a sümegi uradalomra” [The administration of the Bishopric of Veszprém in the eighteenth century, with particular regard to the Manor of Sümeg]. In Megyetörténet: Egyház-és igazgatástörténeti tanulmányok a veszprémi püspökség 1009. évi adománylevele tiszteletére [County history: Studies in the history of church and administration in honor of the Donation Letter of the Bishopric of Veszprém in 1009], edited by István Hermann, and Balázs Karlinszky, 141–77. Veszprém: Archives of Veszprém County – Archives of the Archbishop and General Chapter of Veszprém, 2010.

Mihalik, Béla Vilmos. “Felekezeti konfliktusok a poroszlói Tisza-tájon az 1730–1740-es években” [Confessional conflicts in the region of Poroszló in the 1730s and 1740s]. Agria. Az egri Dobó István Vármúzeum évkönyve 46 (2010): 123–55.

Mihalik, Béla Vilmos. “Parish Priests and Communities in the Diocese of Eger in the Mid-18th Century.” In Research Workshop: The Habsburg Monarchy in the 18th Century, edited by Gunda Barth-Scalmani, Joachim Bürgschwentner, Matthias König, and Christian Steppan, 127–41. Bochum: Dr. Dieter Winkler Verlag, 2012.

Mihalik, Béla Vilmos. Papok, polgárok, konvertiták: Katolikus megújulás az egri egyházmegyében 1670–1699 [Priests, burghers, converts: Catholic renewal in the Diocese of Eger 1670–1699]. Budapest: Institute of History of the Research Centre for the Humanities, 2017.

Mihalik, Béla Vilmos. A kétszer megváltott nép: Katolikus egyház a Jászkunságban (1687–1746) [The people twice redeemed: The Catholic Church in Jászkunság (1687–1746)]. Budapest: Institute of History of the Research Centre for the Humanities, 2020.

Mihalik, Béla Vilmos. Hangsúlyok és fordulópontok az egri egyházmegye történetében (1699–1761) [Emphases and pivotal moments in the history of the Diocese of Eger (1699–1761)]. Budapest: MTA-PPKE Fraknói Vilmos Római Történeti Kutatócsoport, 2021.

Molnár, Antal. Mezőváros és katolicizmus: Katolikus egyház az egri püspökség hódoltsági területein a 17. században [Market town and Catholicism: The Catholic Church in the seventeenth century in the Ottoman territories of the Bishopric of Eger]. Budapest: METEM–Historia Ecclesiastica Hungarica Alapítvány, 2005.

Ó hAnnracháín, Tadhg. Catholic Europe 1592–1648: Centre and Peripheries. Oxford: Oxford University Press, 2015.

Pálffy, Géza. Hungary between Two Empires 1526–1711. Bloomington: Indiana University Press, 2021.

Péter, Katalin. Studies on the History of the Reformation in Hungary and Transylvania. Edited by Gabriella Erdélyi. Refo500 Academic Studies 45. Göttingen: Vandenhoeck & Ruprecht, 2018.

Pörtner, Regina. The Counter-Reformation in Central Europe: Styria 1580–1630. Oxford: Oxford University Press, 2001.

Reinhard, Wolfgang. “Was ist katholische Konfessionalisierung?” In Die katholische Konfessionalisierung: Wissenschaftliches Symposion der Gesellschaft zur Herausgabe des Corpus Catholicorum und des Vereins für Reformationsgeschichte, edited by Wolfgang Reinhard, and Heinz Schilling, 419–52. Gütersloh: Gütersloher Verlagshaus, 1995.

Reinhard, Wolfgang. “Konfession und Konfessionalisierung in Europa (1981).” In Wolfgang Reinhard, Ausgewählte Abhandlungen, 103–25. Berlin: Duncker & Humblot, 1997.

Reinhard, Wolfgang. Felekezet és felekezetszerveződés Európában: A tudományos diskurzus fejleményei. Translated by Forgó András, edited by Tusor Péter. Budapest: MTA-PPKE Fraknói Vilmos Római Történeti Kutatócsoport, 2017.

Scheutz, Martin. “Konfessionalisierung von unten und oben sowie der administrative Umgang mit Geheimprotestantismus in den österreichischen Erbländern.” In Geheimprotestantismus und evangelische Kirche in der Habsburgermonarchie und im Erzstift Salzburg (17./18. Jahrhundert), edited by Rudolf Leeb, Martin Scheutz, and Dietmar Weikl, 25–39. Veröff entlichungen des Instituts für Österreichische Geschichtsforschung 51. Vienna–Munich: Böhlau–Oldenbourg, 2009.

Schilling, Heinz. “Die Konfessionalisierung von Kirche, Staat und Gesellschaft: Profil, Leistung, Defizite und Perspektiven eines geschichtswissenschaftlichen Paradigmas.” In Die katholische Konfessionalisierung: Wissenschaftliches Symposion der Gesellschaft zur Herausgabe des Corpus Catholicorum und des Vereins für Reformationsgeschichte, edited by Wolfgang Reinhard, and Heinz Schilling, 1–49. Gütersloh: Gütersloher Verlagshaus, 1995.

Schilling, Heinz. “Disziplinierung oder ‘Selbstregulierung der Untertanen’? Ein Plädoyer für die Doppelperspektive von Makro- und Mikrohistorie bei der Erforschung der frühmodernen Kirchenzucht.” Historische Zeitschrift 264, no. 3 (1997): 675–91.

Schmid, Alois. “Die Ökonomiepfarrer.” In Kirche-Kunst-Kultur: Geschichts- und kulturwissenschaftliche Studien im süddeutschen Raum und angrenzenden Regionen. Festschrift für Walter Pötzl zum 75. Geburtstag, edited by René Brugger, Bettina Mayer, and Monika Schierl, 49–71. Regensburg: Schnell & Steiner, 2014.

Schmidt, Heinrich Richard. “Sozialdisziplinierung? Ein Plädoyer für das Ende des Etatismus in der Konfessionalisierungforschung.” Historische Zeitschrift 265, no. 3 (1997): 639–82.

Schmidt, Patrick, and Carl Horst. “Einleitung.” In Stadtgemeinde und Ständegesellschaft. Formen der Integration und Distinktion in der frühneuzeitlichen Stadt, edited by Patrick Schmidt, and Horst Carl, 7–30. Berlin: LIT, 2007.

Scribner, R. W. “Communalism: Universal Category or Ideological Construct? A Debate in the Historiography of Early Modern Germany and Switzerland.” The Historical Journal 37, no. 1 (1994): 199–207.

Soós, Imre. Az egri egyházmegyei plébániák történeti áttekintése [Historical overview of the parishes of the Diocese of Eger]. Budapest: Szent István Társulat, 1985.

Spierling, Karin E., and Michael J. Halvorson. “Introduction: Definitions of Community in Early Modern Europe.” In: Defining Community in Early Modern Europe, edited by Michael J. Halvorson, and Karin E. Spierling, 1–23. London–New York: Routledge, 2016.

Stögmann, Arthur. “Staat, Kirche und Bürgerschaft: Die katholische Konfessionalisierung und die Wiener Protestanten zwischen Widerstand und Anpassung (1580–1660).” In Wien im Dreißigjährigen Krieg. Bevölkerung – Gesellschaft – Kultur – Konfession, edited by Andreas Weigl, 482–564. Vienna–Cologne–Weimar: Böhlau, 2001.

Szakály, Ferenc. Parasztvármegyék a XVII. és XVIII. században [Peasant counties in seventeenth and eighteenth century]. Értekezések a történeti tudományok köréből 49. Budapest: Akadémiai Kiadó, 1969.

Szakály, Ferenc. “Török uralom és reformáció Magyarországon a 16. század közepén” [Ottoman rule and Reformation in Hungary in mid-sixteenth century]. Világosság 25, no. 1 (1984): 51–59.

Tóth, Tamás. A Kalocsa-Bácsi Főegyházmegye 18. századi megújulása [The renewal of the Archdiocese of Kalocsa-Bácsi in the eighteenth century]. Budapest–Kalocsa: METEM–Kalocsai Főegyházmegyei Levéltár, 2014.

Tropper, Christine. “Zur grosser ergernus mainer pfarrmenge: Überlegungen zu ländlichen Pfarren als Organisations-, Kommunikations- und Identifikationseinheiten in der Frühen Neuzeit.” Mitteilungen des Instituts für Österreichische Geschichtsforschung 117 (2009): 312–33.

Wellmann, Imre. “Közösségi rend és egyéni törekvések a 18. századi falu életében” [Communal order and individual aspirations in the life of an eighteenth-century village]. Történelmi Szemle 23, no. 3 (1980): 376–449.

Wrightson, Keith. “The Politics of the Parish in Early Modern England.” In The Experience of Authority in Early Modern England, edited by Paul Griffiths, Adam Fox, and Steve Hindle, 10–46. doi: 10.1007/978-1-349-24834-6_2.

 

 

1 Forgó, “Formen der Spätkonfessionalisierung.”

2 Reinhard, “Was ist katholische Konfessionalisierung?”; Schilling, “Die Konfessionalisierung.”

3 Lotz-Heumann offers a thorough discussion of the criticism of the theory of confessionalization: Lotz-Heumann, “Confessionalization.”

4 However, Reinhard later suggested several possible end points for confessionalization: the expulsion of the Huguenots after the revocation of the Edict of Nantes (1685), the Act of Succession to the English throne (1701), which favored Protestant monarchs, and the expulsion of the Salzburger Protestants (1731): Reinhard, “Konfession und Konfessionalisierung,” 125.

5 For theoretical criticisms, see Schmidt, “Sozialdisziplinierung?”; Schilling, “Disziplinierung oder ‘Selbstregulierung der Untertanen’?”; Holzem, “Die Konfessionsgesellschaft”; Lotz-Heumann, “Confessionalization.” Various regional case studies: Holzem, Religion und Lebensformen; Forster, Catholic Revival; Stögmann, “Staat, Kirche und Bürgerschaft”; Scheutz, “Konfessionalisierung von unten”; Pörtner, Counter-Reformation; Kümin and Tramontana, “Catholicism Decentralized.” Specifically on seventeenth-century Hungary: Molnár, Mezőváros és katolicizmus; Mihalik, Papok, polgárok. A rejection of the paradigm of confessionalization: Hersche, Muse und Verschwendung.

6 Gőzsy and Varga, “Kontinuitás és reorganizáció”; Gőzsy and Varga, “A pécsi egyházmegye.” Gőzsy also examined the role of the parish priest in the norm communication toward the communities: Gőzsy, “Plébánosok”; Gőzsy, “Ebenen und Phasen.”

7 A summary of his theory: Blickle, “Communal Reformation.”

8 Scribner, “Communalism.”

9 For this warning on the use of the concept of community, see Spierling and Halvorson, “Introduction.”

10 Wrightson, “The Politics of the Parish.” Thomas V. Cohen has examined this kind of communal internal functioning and the community’s responses to perceived threats in practice, drawing on the example of a village in Italy: Cohen, “Communal thought, communal words”; Cohen, “Social Memory”; Cohen, “The Great Italian.”

11 Bárth, “The Lower Clergy”; Bárth, The Exorcist. Similarly to the notion of the “communal Reformation” introduced by Peter Blickle, Katalin Péter examined the Hungarian “poor communities” as agents of Reformation, even under Ottoman rule and without protection or support patrons and landlords: Péter, Studies, 21–110. In the 1960s, Ferenc Szakály studied thoroughly the “peasant counties,” a self-defense organization of the Christian peasantry in Ottoman-occupied Hungary: Szakály, Parasztvármegyék. A detailed overview of the internal order of the eighteenth-century Hungarian village: Wellmann, “Közösségi rend.”

12 Engel, The realm of St. Stephen, 46.

13 Mályusz, Egyházi társadalom, 120–21.

14 Hegyi, “A plébánia,” 1–5. The extent and type of prerogatives further subdivided the privileged parishes. Privileges could include exemption from territorial ecclesiastical (episcopal, archdeaconry) jurisdiction, the extent of tithing (the parish priest could receive all or most of the tithes), and the free election of priests by the community.

15 Szakály, “Török uralom,” 54.

16 Pálffy, Hungary, 197–204; Ó hAnnracháín, Catholic Europe, 119–37.

17 Mihalik, Papok, polgárok, 176–208; Michels, The Habsburg Empire, 251–339.

18 Sources of figures for the diocese of Eger: Mihalik, Hangsúlyok és fordulópontok, 5. For the Archdiocese of Kalocsa: Tóth, A Kalocsa-Bácsi Főegyházmegye, 177, 219. For the bishopric of Veszprém: Hermann, A veszprémi egyházmegye, 65.

19 Felhő and Vörös, A helytartótanácsi levéltár, 127–28.

20 Mihalik, A kétszer megváltott nép, 77–79.

21 Hermann, A veszprémi egyházmegye, 12–13.

22 Kubinyi, “Egyház és város,” 288–94.

23 Tropper, “Zu grosser ergernus”; Forster, Catholic Revival. On the role of parish in medieval and early modern Western Europe, see Kümin, The Communal Age.

24 Bárth, “Lower Clergy,” 193–94. On the concept of the “economic parish priest” (Ökonomiepfarrer), see Schmid, “Die Ökonomiepfarrer.”

25 Mihalik, A kétszer megváltott nép, 108, 112, 115, 149.

26 Tropper, “Zu grosser ergernus,” 326.

27 EFL, Archivum Vetus, nr. 14. Alattyániensis ecclesia, February 6, 1754. Testimonies, vol. I, 1st witness, Testimony of Ivanics Gergely.

28 Mihalik, “Parish Priests and Communities,” 134.

29 Barna, “A ‘Megszálló levél’,” 44.

30 Mihalik, A kétszer megváltott nép, 201–22.

31 Dénesi, “Plébániaszervezés Somogyban,” 207.

32 Forgó, “Formen der Spätkonfessionalisierung,” 283–85.

33 Dénesi, “Plébániaszervezés Somogyban,” 215–16.

34 Gőzsy and Varga, “A pécsi egyházmegye,” 246, 249–51.

35 Mihalik, “A veszprémi püspökség,” 151–54.

36 VFL, I. 1. 8. Visitationes Canonicae, Districtus Zaladiensis 1778. 542.

37 Mihalik, “Felekezeti konfliktusok,” 148–49.

38 These reasons for better pastoral services are also reflected in German examples: Blickle, “Communal Reformation,” 225.

39 Schmidt and Carl, “Einleitung,” 11–12.

40 EFL, Archivum Vetus, nr. 14. Alattyániensis ecclesia, 1754. február 6. Tanúvallomások I. kötet.

41 EFL, Archivum Vetus, nr. 1746. Pélyiensis parochiae divisionem.

42 Dénesi, “Egy plébániaalapítás nehézségei,” 133–36.

43 Tropper, “Zu grosser ergernus,” 323.

44 EFL, Archivum Vetus, nr. 1097. Ferenczfy Franciscum respicientia, Pély, 1726. május 21. Testimony of the community of Pély.

45 EFL, Visitationes Canonicae, nr. 3414. Districtus Heves 1746. 135.

46 Mihalik, “Felekezeti konfliktusok,” 125.

47 EFL, Archivum Vetus, nr. 1097. Ferenczfy Franciscum respicientia, Pély, May 21, 1726. Testimony from the leaders and residents of Pély.

48 Mihalik, A kétszer megváltott nép, 101–2; EFL, Archivum Vetus, nr. 764. Árvay Michaelem respicientia.

49 Mihalik, A kétszer megváltott nép, 195–201.

50 Forgó, “Formen der Spätkonfessionalisierung,” 281–83.

51 Mihalik, A kétszer megváltott nép, 189–90.

52 Soós, Az egri egyházmegyei plébániák, 371.

53 Forgó, “Formen der Spätkonfessionalisierung,” 278–80.

54 Hermann, A veszprémi egyházmegye, 107–8.

55 Tropper, “Zu grosser ergernus,” 316; Forster, Catholic Revival, 64–66, 207.

56 Forster, Catholic Revival, 66, 154.

57 Wrightson, “The Politics of the Parish,” 12.

58 Tropper, “Zu grosser ergernus,” 329.

59 Tropper, “Zu grosser ergernus.”

60 Gőzsy, “Ebenen und Phasen,” 72–74.

61 Wrightson, “The Politics of the Parish,” 31–32.

2021_4_Újlaki-Nagy

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Faith, Scripture, and Reason: The Debate between Transylvanian Sabbatarians and Christian Francken

Réka Újlaki-Nagy
Research Centre for the Humanities
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Hungarian Historical Review Volume 10 Issue 4  (2021):653-674 DOI 10.38145/2021.4.653

In this study, I present two Sabbatarian texts which were written in response to texts by Christian Francken. Based on the argumentation in the Sabbatarian texts, I try to clarify which writings by the German philosopher they were responding to. I offer an explanation of the ferocity of the Sabbatarian response, and I clarify the reasons why the Sabbatarians found it so important to respond to Francken’s ideas. My analysis of the Sabbatarian texts shows persuasively that Francken’s attacks were related to the basic and specific teachings of the Sabbatarians. The challenge presented by fashionable philosophical trends at the time compelled the Sabbatarians to face not only the benefits but also the dangers of following the ratio in the interpretation of Scripture. Sabbatarian texts arrived at a solution (by drawing a distinction between the concepts of ratio and philosophy) which, although formulated earlier in the established churches, was still undeveloped in the Transylvanian Antitrinitarian movement out of which Sabbatarianism grew.

Keywords: Sabbatarianism, philosophical skepticism, early modern atheism, ratio

One of the most infamous apostates of the late sixteenth century, the German free thinker Christian Francken, visited Transylvania twice, in the middle and late 1580s, and taught at the Unitarian College in Kolozsvár (today Cluj, Romania).1 He noted several times in his writings that he had intentionally chosen this part of Europe instead of taking one of the other posts which he had been offered with better salaries because in Transylvania he hopes to “find people that Diogenes was looking for with a torch in broad daylight.” Had his goal had been to make money, he writes, he would have chosen another region.2 This self-confident claim must be treated with reservations, as there was practically no other place in Europe where he would have been able to move freely to propagate his teachings, and he would not have found such openness for his bold ideas elsewhere in Europe. Francken tried to spread his criticism of Christian churches among the deniers of the Trinity in the guise of Aristotelianism. This philosophical trend seemed familiar to the Transylvanian Antitrinitarian elite, most of whom had been educated in Padua.3 However, this social stratum was open to a wide variety of new ideas, not just those coming from philosophical skepticism. Fashionable trends competed with one another, and the circle of potentially interested parties overlapped. Since the spiritual elite consisted primarily of aristocrats, who were also supporters and patrons with political power and influence, winning them was a serious challenge. Antal Pirnát considered the Sabbatarian debate with Francken a struggle for support and positions.4 Although with his presence and work in Transylvania Francken not only aroused interest but also provoked hostility in many,5 only Sabbatarians reflected on this in voluminous written texts. These texts try to reach and convince the abovementioned target audience. One of them indicates in its title the reason why it was written: some “great and noble” people had begun to follow a kind of human, Aristotelian reasoning which questioned the authority of Moses and other holy people of ancient times. The main disseminator of these dangerous misconceptions “gives great courage to many great and noble men to their peril.”6 Sabbatarian texts argue with Francken (though without referring to him by name) and not with the aristocrats, whom they address indirectly, presumably in an effort to avoid provoking resentment among them. Thus, it is repeatedly emphasized that the addressees are the deceived people and their “master,” “with the exception of those pious, God-fearing gentlemen and noblemen who do not believe in such lies and seek” to live gracefully.7

Sabbatarianism in the 1580s and early 1590s was still a relatively recent, evolving initiative which looked back on a history of only a few years. Theological debate formulated in polemical-apological writings was seen as a means of perhaps averting the threat to the very existence of Sabbatarianism.

I work in my inquiry here from the hypothesis that Francken attacked the area of the religion that was most sensitive to the Sabbatarian faith. Francken’s attack was not deliberately directed against the Sabbatarians. His works written in Transylvania imply a much broader target audience, and their intellectual horizon included new ideas in terms of philosophy, nonadorantism, and politics. Although Francken could not have regarded the Sabbatarians as remarkable opponents, the anger which one discerns in the Sabbatarian texts and also the length of these texts can be interpreted as indications that the Sabbatarians felt threatened by his ideas. The purpose of the analysis I offer here, therefore, is to identify the areas in which Sabbatarians found Francken’s attacks the most troubling and how they defended themselves against his ideas. I do this by placing reading the Sabbatarian apologies as polemical texts in debate with Francken’s writings. Although Bálint Keserű, Antal Pirnát, and Györgyi Máté have shown that the Sabbatarian texts are reactions to Francken’s provocative writings, they do not offer any in-depth analysis of the disputed issues or their theological background. Though one cannot speak of a nuanced exchange of ideas among the disagreeing parties, since we have only the responses of the Sabbatarians to Francken’s writings but no response from Francken to their polemics, the Sabbatarian texts nonetheless offer a clear indication of the impact of Francken’s ideas.

I begin with a discussion of Francken’s writings, or more narrowly, the texts which seem, on the basis of the Sabbatarian texts, to have been met with such alarm among the Sabbatarians. I then consider the ways in which the ideas found in his writings were recast and rephrased in the Sabbatarian texts, and I consider the Sabbatarian arguments against his tenets.

Francken’s Most Debated Texts

The most important among the text by Francken to which the Sabbatarian polemical writings respond are the Argumenta XXII in Sacram Mosis Historiam and the Disputatio inter Theologum et Philosophum de incertitudine religionis Christianae. In addition, the Sabbatarian texts also seem to have responded to some of the ideas from his Praecipuarum enumeratio8 and Spectrum diurnum Genii Christiani.9

The theses of the Argumenta10 have survived along with their refutation by Franciscus Junius, a French professor from Heidelberg. According to Antal Pirnát, the original document was written before 1587, and it was probably taken by Transylvanian students on their study trip to Heidelberg.11 The 22 theses published in the appendix to Junius’ writing attack the authenticity of the story of creation and the authority of Moses, setting Aristotelian physics as the only reasonable worldview. The original document was written presumably as a reaction to the so-called judaizer practices that Francken encountered in the court of János Gerendi.12 Gerendi was the leader of the abovementioned group formed from the aristocratic elite. He was in contact with the most prominent promulgators of Antitrinitarianism, and he supported them financially and also with his political influence. At the time Francken visited him, he was celebrating Sabbath and also observing certain dietary restrictions, presumably for reasons other than the reasons which guided dietary restrictions among the so-called Sabbatarians.13 Based on the experiences gained during the visit, Francken promised in a letter to him that he would deal in more detail with the beliefs concerning the writings of Moses.14

The other important work by Francken on the subject is the Disputatio, written during his second stay in Kolozsvár around 1590.15 This is perhaps the work in which Francken went the furthest in questioning the foundations of Christianity and belief in God. He himself later declared it a dangerous, atheistic, blasphemous text.16 It was written in the form of a dialogue between a Philosopher and a Theologian. Lech Szczucki aptly called it a “deaf-mute dialogue,”17 as it is only the philosopher who responds to the theologian’s arguments. The theologian does not even seem to understand his opponent’s objection, who does not accept the Holy Scripture as the authoritative basis for the debate, and he (the theologian) founds his arguments over and over again on the infallibility of Scripture. Consequently, the Philosopher begins most of his replies by pronouncing the theologian’s arguments logically defective. The philosopher’s answers in the Disputatio (presumably Francken’s own voice)18 blame his opponent for ignoring rationality and disregarding the rules of logic and argumentation. According to the philosopher, theologians do not derive the less known from the known, but infer it from an uncertain premise and thus commit the classical fallacy of petitio principii. Divine revelation can only be proved from the words of the Scripture, which are precisely what the philosopher requires proof for. Thus, an argument based on divine revelation is only an argument for those who want to believe it.19 This oft repeated accusation is so irritating that it demands the reader’s attention and reflection. This may have been the case for the Sabbatarians as well.

Sabbatarian Texts Written against Francken and the Issues Debated

On the divine wisdom of the prophet Moses

Two polemical texts are included in the Sabbatarian codices that were written against Christian Francken and his followers. One is the On the divine wisdom of the prophet Moses and the worldly wisdom of Aristotle and the various reasonings of men that were now brought forth by the noble orders and presented as true knowledge against the prophet Moses and against the knowledge and understanding of many old saints, presumably written by András Eőssi and surviving in two early Sabbatarian manuscript collections.20 The first part of the text is for the most part a reply to Francken’s criticism of the biblical history of creation, while the second chapter targeted the three other main camps (secta) of those who were seen by the Sabbatarians as having erred: adherents of popery, the followers of Luther, and above all, the Adorantists (Antitrinitarians who accepted the adoration of Christ), called demetriades. The name of the latter group derives from the Unitarian bishop Demeter Hunyadi, who forcibly compelled his followers to accept the worship of Jesus. The literature dates this Sabbatarian text between May 31 and July 8, 1592 and treats it as a reply to Francken’s Argumenta.21

The text mentions two critiques by Francken and offers polemical refutations of them.

The first critique by Francken discussed in this Sabbatarian text concerns the person and credibility of Moses, who according to Francken (as paraphrased in the Sabbatarian text) “talks a lot but proves little.”22 This is not a specific contention found in one of Francken’s works. Rather, it can be seen as a summary of the Argumenta, as this work is in general a questioning of the credibility of Moses and the first chapters of the Bible. One finds a similar line of reasoning in the Disputatio, in which Francken repeatedly states that only those believe the absurd stories of Moses who want to believe them.23

Francken’s criticism of Moses and his laws constituted an attack on the greatest authority for the Sabbatarians. The Sabbatarian apology is trivial. It consists mostly of arguments based on the authority of the Bible: Moses was recognized as a divine messenger by the people living after him, by prophets, saints, apostles, and Christ himself. They referred to him as a supreme authority and did not correct his writings. The same is not true of Aristotle, who never enjoyed such acceptance and authority. Moses’ divine mission was demonstrated by the miracles which had taken place before the eyes and ears of an entire people on Mount Sinai and throughout the wanderings in the wilderness. In contrast, Aristotle authority was not proven by any divine miracle or extraordinary phenomenon. The divine origin of the prophecies of Moses are also confirmed by their fulfilment. Everything that Moses said came true, and this could be continuously verified.24

The second problem discussed by the Sabbatarian author in detail is the question of who Cain feared after he killed Abel, as he was the only living son of the first human couple according to the Bible.25 The answer, according to the author, lies in the characteristics of biblical genealogical tables. The author of Genesis mentioned only the genealogy of the godly, the “holy branch,” i.e. of those who were the ancestors of the Messiah, because he knew that God took no delight in murderers. This way of thinking can be observed in the way in which the text mentions that Cain took a wife but does not specify who his wife was. As a consequence, we do not know of any brothers or sons who were evil, nor do we know of any women. The first God-fearing son of Adam was Seth, who is part of the genealogical table. According to the author, another answer may have been Cain’s state of mind following the murder. God gave him “a terrified heart” because of his deed, and ever since, one who spills innocent blood “dreads even the rustling leaf of the tree,” like Lamech who committed a murder similar to the one committed by Cain.26

The author addresses Aristotle: “This does not mean that man existed on other lands in this earth.” And he continues: “God did not have another creation beyond from Adam, despite what you say, Aristotle.”27 These quotations suggest the existence of a theory of creation assuming parallel creations on different continents with different “Adams.” The “critique of Aristotel” formulated here is thus ambiguous. The surviving documents do not contain any reflection by Francken on the story of Cain, however, such an idea wouldn’t be surprising from him, given his critical attitude to the Mosaic narrative.

It seems, however, that the Sabbatarian author struggles against an allegorical theory of creation very similar to the concepts of Jacobus Palaeologus. Palaeologus, who was born in Chios and completed his literary work in Transylvania, propagated co-Adamism or multiple Adamism, a theory that presumed parallel creations (in opposition to the literal understanding of the story of creation) in his treatise entitled An omnes ab uno Adamo descenderint (1573).28 Nevertheless, he did not go so far to question the veracity of the creation story, nor did he mention this view in his later works.29

The Sabbatarian text calls the opponent Aristotle, which, according to the secondary literature, is a reference to Francken.30 It is also conceivable, however, that the author is confronted with a mixture of fashionable ideas in which, although Francken’s influence is obviously felt, Palaeologus is also implicitly present (despite their otherwise appreciative attitude towards the Greek scholar). If the promotion of this theory of creation was nevertheless connected to Francken, it could only be true in the 1580s, since in Disputatio, which was written later, Francken denied the necessity of divine creation. According to the philosopher of the Disputatio, the creation and functioning of the world can be explained on the basis of the immanent reasons operating it, without the acceptance of a concept of God, a primary reason, or the creatio ex nihilo.31

Towards the end of On the prophet Moses, the author informs us that the disseminator of these false theses denied the existence of God and the Devil, as well as resurrection.32 The latter accusation is also present in the next Sabbatarian text, and it is an unambiguous allusion to Francken. The Devil is not discussed explicitly in the abovementioned works by Francken, but he partially explains his view on resurrection and the afterworld in a short work addressed to Gerendi.33 He claims in this work that literary immortality “is the eternal life all of us must wish for our true friends… We all love the other eternal life [the one in the afterworld] but a secret natural instinct makes us suspect that it is rather uncertain and we would not readily trade one for the other, even if it were possible.”34

The Sabbatarian position follows a traditional Christian argumentation, according to which human nature (conscience and the fear of death) suggests and proves the existence of an afterworld. Francken reverses this line of reasoning, arguing that it is precisely human nature that bears witness to the immortality of the soul and the afterlife. The desire for happiness and immortality can only be a result of the imperfection of nature.35

Francken’s most provocative charge, which the Sabbatarian author does not explicitly mention though he defends his faith against it, concerned the ratio. The philosopher of the Disputatio disputed the actual use of ratio by theologians. This charge obviously disturbed the Sabbatarians, as they were the successors of an Antitrinitarian tradition in which the ratio became increasingly important and the effort to follow it became more and more pronounced. Correspondence with ratio in their view was a condition of true faith.

The Sabbatarian text responds to the charge of neglecting reason with a kind of differentiation in the concept of the ratio. This distinction between divine and human ratio appears in the title and runs throughout the text. Understanding Scripture depends on approaching it with human or divine wisdom. This is, in fact, a rejection of Francken’s claim, which is only willing to accept rational and natural philosophical arguments as the basis of the debate on religion and theology. Thus, the Sabbatarian author does not directly refer to Scripture as the absolute authority, but rather claims that the mere notion of following reason does not mean the same thing to him as it does to his opponent. Decisive authority for him is divine wisdom, which obviously includes the perceptive capacity of the mind, but also conceals the written and oral revelation that does not contradict it. Thus, contrary to Francken’s method inclining to rationality, the Sabbatarian author when dealing with religious issues may allow himself, under the pretext of divine wisdom, to use other (even scriptural) arguments that fit into his concept of divine wisdom.

As can be seen from the responses in the Sabbatarian text, the polemic treatise On the prophet Moses… is not a direct reply to Francken’s Argumenta. This finding is confirmed not only by the mention in the Sabbatarian text of ideas that are not found in the Argumenta (e. g. Cain’s fear), but also by the fact that there are no issues in it that are not present in Francken’s other works.

The Complaint of the Holy Scripture

The second, undated Sabbatarian apology against Francken is entitled Complaint of the Holy Scripture against those who started to hate it out of obstinacy, the love of the world or other reasons due to human wickedness (hereinafter Complaint).36 The first 18 arguments (out of 37 arguments for the existence of God) of the theologian of Disputatio are thematized and cited in this text. However, like the other Sabbatarian polemic writing mentioned above, this text cannot be considered merely an answer to the Disputatio, since the Sabbatarian author also fights against thoughts of unspecified origin and ideas known from Francken’s other works. The author does not even refer to a particular work, but his most commonly used formula of address is the plural “your Sophists also say,” which may also apply to ideas spread orally.

It could be claimed that the preface of the Complaint is a response to the preface of the Disputatio, but one should be careful with this claim, since Francken’s main argument against Christian theologians discussed here (that religion cannot be supported by an absolutely certain and doubtless argument) can be found also in his Spectrum.37 He asserts that the arguments supporting religion are only of a probable nature, and since probable arguments can be refuted and human cognitive abilities vary, this explains the existence of the many religions.38 He sees the reason for the existence of religion itself in fear of punishment, which suppresses the mind and allows it to be dominated by distorted beliefs.39 Although he is highly critical of religions, he does not reject them completely. In his view, religions are useful tools for society, as they hold people in check and make them easy to control.40

The Sabbatarian author formulates this utilitarian thought of Francken, according to which religion is merely a tool, with these words: “religion was only invented for the foolish people.”41 According to him, bad interpretations lead to the creation of errant religions, but this does not change the substance of God’s word. A true fact may be interpreted in many ways, depending on influencing factors and interests. He takes an example from Transylvanian social practice: if a case is taken to the Diet, Saxons and Hungarians interpret it in different ways according to various factors. However, the truth of the case is independent of the Hungarian and Saxon interpretation, as the truth stands in and of itself. One must make efforts to find the truth, the true religion, and one must look for it at the right place (that is, in Judaism).42

As a counterattack, the Sabbatarian author accuses Francken of covert atheism. He attributes to him a reduced image of God that could not have originated from the Disputatio, which rejects even the idea of a God based on the smallest dogmatic minimum, but which must have been closer to the concept of God of the Spectrum and was probably spread orally by Francken’s followers. The Spectrum still keeps a reduced, so-called Anselmian concept of God (“quo nihil sit melius aut maius” – “argumentum Anselmianum” of Anselm of Canterbury) and protests against the charge of atheism.43

The Sabbatarian charge is as follows: “You say that the kind of God you promote with your disciples and Sophists, just to refute the accusation that you are a denier of God, does not feel anything, does not talk to those on Earth, does not take care of or hurt anyone, just sits calmly and is not angry with anyone.”44 Although the Sabbatarian author sensed the difference between atheism and Francken’s concept of God, he thought that Francken’s defense against atheism was artificial, apparent objection. According to him, the existence of a God that Francken’s worldview allows cannot be demonstrated with any argument.45 The author does not tolerate any other image of God or concept of revelation than the one announced in the Old Testament. This means that, as opposed to the theologian of the Disputatio, among others, the Sabbatarian author is against the natural religion. He believes that without oral revelation, nothing is sufficient to prove the existence of a true God.46

The criticism in Francken’s works that seems to have irritated the Sabbatarian author the most was probably the one concerning Moses and the revelation of the law. It is no coincidence that both Sabbatarian texts deal with this issue at the greatest length. The first text indicates this in its title, and although the title of the second one suggests that its author defends all of Scripture, he also reduces his defense to the person and writings of Moses. The previously mentioned Argumenta is entirely a questioning of the history of creation written by Moses and of his intentions and capacities. Francken formulated his arguments in a very provocative way, presenting Moses as someone who “can hardly avoid the stamp of ignorance,”47 who “does not understand what he is saying,”48 who “demonstrates his total lack of astronomical knowledge” or “any kind of meteorological knowledge,” and who “presents God as an ignorant God who does not foresee anything,” “either because he did not know that there is also air in nature or because he did not want his Jews to know this, and he claims—not only falsely but entirely improbably—that birds were created from water”49 and “man is similar to God in body, so Moses believes that God is also a body.”50 These statements constituted an attack on the books of the Scripture that were considered most authentic and important by the Sabbatarians and even went so far as to mock the greatest biblical authority, Moses, and present him as ignorant and of dubious intentions.

In his first eight arguments of the Argumenta, Francken sets out in his objections to the history of creation with references to details of astronomy, which the Sabbatarian author formulates in the following words: “As the son cannot be born before the father, the day cannot exist before the Sun. But the Sun was created on the fourth day, so it cannot have existed on the previous three days, because the Sun and the Moon make and divide the day and the night.”51 The Argumenta states that the cause of the days is the sun, and light is the quality and attribute of the sun, not a substance but an accident. However, the effect cannot precede the cause, just as the son cannot precede his father, and the accident cannot exist without the subject to which it belongs.52 Darkness does not precede but simply follows the existence of light.53 He repeatedly refers to the relationship of the part to the whole and claims that the whole cannot be created without its parts.54

The Sabbatarian reply to this is not particularly detailed. It is limited to the distinction between “dies” and “Sol.” According to the Sabbatarian author, at the beginning of creation, on the first day, the duration of a day was determined. The day had some light, but not as strong as later from the sun. Thus, on the first three days, day was separated from night in a way that a furrow separates two pieces of land: it is not as evident as if a great stone had been put between the two to signal the demarcation.55

Not only the Argumenta, but also the first point of the Disputatio discusses the revelation, claiming that there is no evidence for it. Accordingly, the Sabbatarian response is also detailed. The Sabbatarian author seeks to list a number of arguments in defense of divine revelation, the most significant of which he considers to be human remembrance. The existence of generations and empires is built on collective memory, preserved through letters, oral testimonies, and historical chronicles. Nor can the existence of Aristotle be proven in any other way unless we give credit to the writings that perpetuate his memory.56 In addition to written memory, however, there is also an oral memory, survived purely only among Jews. The yearly festivals and rites with historical narratives served as aids to keep memories alive and pure.57 In order to prove the authenticity of the revelation and the writings of Moses, the author also tries to use psychological arguments. Contrary to the “sophist” charge, according to which Moses wrote and acted arbitrarily, he tries to prove that, like the other prophets, Moses did nothing to seek his own glory. According to the Sabbatarian author, it would be understandable if Moses had attributed the law to himself, issued in his own name to seek his own glory, but he never did.58 If the law had been merely a fiction of Moses, it would not have been able to persuade an entire people to follow it. After his death, there would have been little compulsion or reason to obey such a law,59 just as it would have been pointless to suffer in the desert for 40 years without any result if Moses had been the originator of all this. It is a well-known argument that it would have been foolish for the prophets to endure persecution and torture for something they themselves knew was not true.60 Scripture cannot belong solely to Moses, because the covenant had begun with Abraham. Moses only continued an existing tradition. If the writings of Moses had been created arbitrarily, the prophets of later ages would have pointed out the unauthentic parts.61 The author defends only the prophecies of Moses against the accusation by Francken that they were not fulfilled. According to the philosopher of the Disputatio, if the facts prove that the prophets were not mistaken, it is due to chance or the existence of magical powers.62 The Sabbatarian author, on the other hand, believes that the prophecies had been fulfilled “point by point,” and this can be verified empirically. The miserable fate of the Jews, foretold by Moses as a consequence of their disobedience, is still clearly perceptible.63

The essence of the revelation for the Sabbatarian author is the law, so it is particularly offensive to him that Francken considers biblical law and other religious laws equal.64 The philosopher of the Disputatio claims that the laws of different nations are equally useful tools of social order, of controlling people.65 Although they are not of divine origin, they teach us honesty when interpreted properly.66 Francken finds a parallel between Moses and other lawmakers who lied and claimed that they had received their laws from gods, e. g. Zoroaster from the Good Spirit, Lycurgus from Apollo, Mohammed from Gabriel, etc.67

In contrast, the Sabbatarian author believes that although divine laws (such as the laws of Adam and Noah) existed outside the mosaic law, they survived only among the Jews and the Caldeans.68 Every other law is just human fabrication. He proves this with yet another psychological argument: the omission of human writings does not have an effect on the human soul, as opposed to Scripture, which influences our soul. If you keep its teachings, you will feel good. If not, you will be filled with fear:69 “It is not possible that the dead Moses does this in the human heart, that he creates a movement and sensitivity… He bears his blessed and damned effects in his conscience, whether he wants to or not… he cannot remove it.”70 The hour of death or dying is a great sign of this functioning, as even the “atheist” feels “the sting of eternal death” and is horrified.71

The Sabbatarian text mentions several so called “sophist” criticisms related to the authenticity of the Holy Scripture which are not found in Francken’s writings. One of these criticisms was that believers in Scripture cannot even say when these books were given the names Scripture and Bible.72 The Sabbatarian author tries to give a historical answer, but he is a bit misinformed (according to him, the texts were given these names when the Septuagint translation was completed), and he concludes his line of reasoning with a logical argument: the late appearance of a name is not an argument against the authenticity of the object of the name, just as the New World discovered by the Spanish had existed for a long time, regardless of the fact that it only received its name recently. However, the answer points out that the author considers the Hebrew Scripture to be the Bible and not the Christian one.73

Similarly, the origin of the “sophist” argument that the historical events portrayed in the Bible are not mentioned by other nations is unknown. According to the Sabbatarian author, it is only natural that the revelation was given to only one nation, the nation that was willing to pass it on. Each nation tried to record and pass on the glory of its own nation and not that of others, if it knew writing at all (except the Chaldeans).74 Nevertheless, the lack of such texts in other nations does not demonstrate the inauthenticity of Scripture. Just because Mohammed does not write about Attila’s acts and Vlach (Romanian) chronicles do not mention King Matthias, these people and their deeds existed.75

Another criticism by Francken which constituted a keen attack on essential aspects of the faith for the Sabbatarians concerns the Jewish people as the chosen one (Disputatio, arguments 3–5). The philosopher argues “on the basis of rationality” that God cannot be closer to one people than to another. If he created all people, he nurtures them all. Everyone is his property, and he takes care of everyone. He must teach everyone if he wants everyone to convert. It is also clear that every nation refers to its own divine miracles and exceptional treatment, and every nation considers itself God’s people and its law divine law.76

The Sabbatarian text clearly and firmly defends the Jews as the chosen people. It mentions the usual Sabbatarian argument according to which the revelation and its interpretation were given to the Jews and it asserts the Jews the guides of the blind in this matter, but it also describes the Jews with stereotypical characteristics as an exceptional, blessed nation. They handle work and money wisely and have learned longsuffering and patience at the cost of much misery.77

To reinforce his proofs, Francken ends his Disputatio with a catalogue enumerating ten theses from ancient atheist philosophers. The Sabbatarian author saw in this catalogue the machination of contrasting philosophy and religious faith.78 He rejects this attempt by stating that philosophy is not necessarily blasphemous. Because of the oblivion of true memory among their fathers, the philosophers in question could no longer learn of God. The Sabbatarian author also devaluates his opponent’s skills and character with pejorative words, contrasting him with the ancient “sophists,” who pursued philosophical reasoning on a higher level:

But wise men with a true mind could differentiate between the grunt of a drove of pigs and the song of the nightingale. Read the writings of Coriphees attacking atheists: the philosophy of Lactantius, Philippus Morneus, Joannes Bodinus, Philo. See what Josephus answers to Appion the Grammaticus when Appion had the same opinion of Moses as you do. Read old histories that I cannot even enumerate. Were all philosophers atheists? Plato, Socrates and the others.79

Although Sabbatarian texts do not have a positive view of philosophy in general, it cannot be stated that they were expressly anti-philosophical. Towards the end of the apology under discussion, the following statement can be found: “Philosophy is thus double: true and false. One is for my followers, one is for yours.”80 The abovementioned “grunt of a drove of pigs” and the “song of the nightingale” thus signify the two kinds of philosophy or wisdom, true and false.

One long Sabbatarian treatise begins with the theoretical distinction between human and divine wisdom and brings philosophy into the discourse:

[Those erring] do not make a difference between the two kinds of wisdom, as the wisdom of this world is worldly, the wisdom of the spiritual person is heavenly… That is what Lactantius thinks when he writes: The sages of the world are rightly called philosophers, as they seek wisdom throughout their lives, but they never find it, because they do not search it where it can be found, for out of the nations under the sun God had given it unto one nation.81

This latter text gives us the Sabbatarian key to true philosophy and wisdom: the Jewish oral tradition, or in other words, the Jewish interpretation of Scripture.

Conclusion

Christian Francken’s works written in Transylvania are of historical and philosophical significance on the European level, especially his Disputatio inter Theologum et Philosophum de incertitudine religionis Christianae, the first theoretical atheist work in the history of European philosophy.82 The most significant reflection on the works of the German philosopher, at least from the perspective of the length of the texts, came from the Transylvanian Sabbatarians. Therefore, it would be reasonable for the secondary literature to place more emphasis on these polemic texts. Although the impact of the texts discussed above remained local due to their inaccessibility in terms of language and the fact that they remained in handwritten manuscripts, the ideas in these texts were nonetheless significant for the formation of a religious community balancing between Christianity and Judaism.

As is clear from the discussion above, the ideas in Francken’s writings which were made the object of criticism by the Sabbatarian author(s) concerned four main theological topics: the existence of God, the authenticity of Scripture and the law, the authority of Moses, and the privileges of the chosen people. Most of these issues, especially the last three, are particularly emphatic teachings for the Sabbatarians. In the defense of these teachings, they could not have relied on other denominations. These were theological issues which for the Sabbatarians were the foundations of true religion and faith on which they built their entire system of teachings. It is thus understandable that they came to the defense of these ideas.

In addition to opposing certain attacks on Scripture and the belief in God, the most important part of the Sabbatarian defense was that the provocative ideas claiming to follow the ratio were considered human reasonings by them. Although they may have experienced the presence of the philosophy of Francken as a serious threat and may have detected its influence, this threat did not entail a devaluation of rationality or a total rejection of philosophy by them. In the search for effective answers, they had to make their own way without the help of their spiritual predecessors. They did not choose a solution that subordinated ratio entirely to the text of Scripture, but avoided the accusation of anti-rationality by drawing a distinction between philosophy and the concept of ratio.

The interaction and influence between the Sabbatarians and Francken could not have been deep or long-term. It was reciprocal in the sense that it stimulated discussion and debate on both sides. Thanks to the law-oriented spiritual trends of the time in Transylvania, Francken was thoroughly immersed in dissecting the authenticity of the Holy Scripture, especially the books of Moses and the law. The result, in turn, forced Sabbatarians of the 1590s into a defensive stance and prompted them to face the challenges of following the ratio.

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Szczucki, Lech. “Philosophie und Autorität: Der Fall Christian Francken.” In Reformation und Frühaufklärung in Polen: Studien über den Sozinianismus und seinen Einfluß auf das westeuropäische Denken im 17. Jahrhundert, edited by Paul Wrzecionko, 157–243. Göttingen: Vandenhoeck & Ruprecht, 1977.

Szczucki, Lech. “Filozófia és tekintély (Christian Francken esete)” [Philosophy and authority: The case of Christian Francken]. In Két XVI. századi eretnek gondolkodó (Jacobus Palaeologus és Christian Francken), translated by István Varsányi, and Tibor Schulek, 83–124. Budapest: Akadémiai, 1980.

Újlaki-Nagy, Réka. Korai szombatos írások [Early Sabbatarian writings]. Fiatal Filológusok Füzetei 7. Szeged: SZTE, 2010.

Újlaki-Nagy, Réka. “Sabbath-Keeping in Transylvania from the End of the 16th Century to the Early 17th Century.” In Sabbat und Sabbatobservanz in der Frühen Neuzeit, edited by Anselm Schuber, Schriften des Vereins für Reformationsgeschichte 217, 167–200. Göttingen: Gütersloher Verlagshaus, 2016.

Újlaki-Nagy, Réka. “Judaizing and Identity in the Earliest Transylvanian Sabbatarian Writings (1588?–1621).” Wrocław Theological Review 26, no. 1 (2018): 41–60.

Veress, Endre. A paduai egyetem magyarországi tanulóinak anyakönyve és iratai (1264–1864) [Registers and documents of Hungarian students at the University of Padua]. Budapest–Kolozsvár: Stephaneum, 1915.

Veress, Endre, ed. Annuae Litterae Societatis Jesu de rebus Transylvanicis temporibus principum Báthory (1579–1613). Fontes Rerum Transylvanicarum 16. Budapest–Veszprém: Egyházm. Nyomda, 1921.

1 The most important literature on Francken from the perspective of this inquiry: Pietrzyk et al., Antitrinitaires polonais; Pirnát, “Christian Francken egy ismeretlen munkája”; Keserű, “Christian Franckens Tätigkeit”; Szczucki, “Filozófia és tekintély”; Simon, Die Religionsphilosophie Christian Franckens (1552–1610?); Simon, “Filozófiai ateizmus”; Simon, “A kleitomakhoszi ateista-katalógus recepciója”; Biagioni, The Radical Reformation; Francken, Opere a stampa.

2 “His, inquam, et multis aliis vitae commoditatibus reiectis, in Transylvaniam rediit, non aliam certe ob causam, quam quod experientia didicerat, citius hic, quam alibi inveniri homines, quales Diogenes clarissimo die quaerere lucernacula sua solitus fuit.” Spectrum diurnum Genii Christiani Francken, apparens malo Simonis Simonii Genio, Kolozsvár, ca. 1590. Published in Simon, Die Religionsphilosophie, 183–203. Original numbering: 47–49. See also the 33.

3 See the list of Hungarians who studied at the University of Padua in Veress, A paduai egyetem. Concerning the peregrinatio academica of Transylvanian students, see Szabó and Tonk, Erdélyiek egyetemjárása; Szabó. “Az erdélyi unitáriusok”; Lovas, “Unitáriusok egyetemjárása.”

4 Pirnát, “Arisztoteliánusok és antitrinitáriusok.” The Sabbatarian references to the spread of Francken’s ideas among the elite are consistent with the accusations made by the Calvinist theologian Franciscus Junius, who claimed that Francken, as the servant of Satan, spread his ungodly views among the students of Kolozsvár and like a bat “flies around the houses of the mighty people in darkness.” Pirnát, “Christian Francken egy ismeretlen munkája,” 109.

5 For example, the Bishop Demeter Hunyadi ironically refers to Francken’s followers as “deep minded” in one of his sermons. According to him, the rich and mighty, in particular, are more likely to be tempted by this aberration. The deceived people question the authority of the Scripture, mock those who suffer for their faith, do not believe in miracles, in the existence of Devil, in the religion itself, claim that the function of the religion is to tie or bind the poor, and contend that the world is eternal and belief in the soul is nonsense. Possár. “Újabb adatok,” especially 187–88. There are other references to individuals who came under Francken’s influence. See Pázmány Péter összes munkái, vol. 3, 13; Cf. Balázs, “Trauzner Lukács ‘megtérése’,” 12; Pirnát, “Arisztoteliánusok,” 371. The secondary literature identifies the person referred to here as Lukács Trauzner, the son-in-law of Ferenc Dávid. Related to this, see Giovanni Argenti, leader of the Transylvanian Jesuit Order: “tandem, inquam, ex Arianismo in atheismum praeceps actus, tantum profecerat, ut in mundi fabrica et gubernatione Aristoteli potius, quam Moysi credendum esse existimaret. Hinc cum aliquando philosophi Ethicam percurrisset, ea de re ad amicum scribens: ‘Etiamsi, inquit, libri omnes sacri amitterentur, nihilominus tamen homo suae saluti consulere posset, si vel Ethicas ab Aristotele traditas praeceptiones observaret.’ Licet autem privatim de Deo, uti atheus sentiret, religionemque nihil aliud esse, quam populare frenum a sapientoribus excogitatum arbitraretur; publice tamen Arianismum, in quo consenuerat, profitebatur.” Veress, Annuae Litterae Societatis Jesu, 97. I would like to express my gratitude to József Simon for the data mentioned in this paragraph.

6 RMKT XVII/5, 513, 515.

7 Ibid., 515.

8 Praecipuarum enumeratio causarum, cur Christiani, cum in multis modis religionis doctrinis mobiles sint et varii, in Trinitatis tamen retinendo dogmate sint constantissimi, Kraków, 1584. Modern edition: Szczucki, W kręgu myślicieli heretyckich, 256–67.

9 Spectrum diurnum Genii Christiani Francken, apparens malo Simonis Simonii Genio, Kolozsvár, ca. 1590. The manuscript is preserved in Archives of Székesfehérvár City with County Rights, the deposit of Ferenc Vathay, fol. 17–49. Published in Simon, Die Religionsphilosophie, 183–203.

10 The manuscript was considered missing for a long time, until Antal Pirnát found Francken’s theses and their refutation in a collection of theological treatises of Franciscus Junius in Debrecen (“Confutatio argumentorum XXII, quae olim a Simplicio in Sacram Mosis historiam de creatione fuerunt proposita, et nostro saeculo ab hominibus prophanis atheisque recocta imperitis obtruduntur.” In Francisci Junii Biturgis Opera Theologica I. Genevae, 1613, 99–120). The Latin theses and their Hungarian translation were published by Pirnát, “Christian Francken egy ismeretlen munkája,” 107–19.

11 Ibid., 109.

12 See Dán, “Judaizare”; Újlaki-Nagy, “Judaizing and Identity.”

13 See Pirnát’s study cited above and from the same author “Gerendi János és Eőssi András.” See also Újlaki-Nagy, “Sabbath-Keeping.”

14 Pokoly, Magyar Protestáns Egyháztörténeti Adattár, vol 8, 158–60; Pirnát, “Arisztoteliánusok és antitrinitáriusok,” 369–70.

15 The final form of Disputatio is thought to have developed in 1593. See Biagioni, The Radical Reformation and the Making of Modern Europe, 116–18. The manuscript is kept in Biblioteka Uniwersytetu Wrocławskiego, signature Mss. Akc. 1955/220. Modern edition: Simon, Die Religionsphilosophie Christian Franckens, 151–82. The work was found by Bálint Keserű in 1972 in Wrocław.

16 Keserű, “Christian Franckens Tätigkeit,” 79. The arguments are typical erudite libertarian ideas and bear a resemblance to the mysterious and undated text of De Tribus Impostoribus. See the debate on whether Francken can be linked to this work: Biagioni, “Christian Francken e le origini” and Simon, “Metaphysical Certitude.”

17 Szczucki, “Filozófia és tekintély,” 114.

18 Biagioni, The Radical Reformation and the Making of Modern Europe, 118.

19 Disputatio, the first argument of the philosopher.

20 Mózes prófétának Istentől származó bölcsességéről és Arisztotelésznek ez világi bölcsességéről és az embereknek külemb-külemb okoskodásokról való írás melyet most ez világi fő rendek némelyek elővettek és igaz tudománnak mondanak Mózes próféta ellen és az régi sok szentek tudományok és értelmek ellen. One of the collections is the codex Mátéfi Kissolymosi, kept in the Kalocsa Cathedral Library under the signature Ms 303 (21 509). The other collection is in the Library of the Romanian Academy Cluj-Napoca with the title Szombatosok régi könyve or Árkosi kódex, signature MsU. 1290. There is no significant difference between the two variants. The critical edition of the text was published in the Volume 5 of the seventeenth-century series Régi Magyar Költők Tára, on pages 513–18.

21 Pirnát, “Christian Francken egy ismeretlen munkája,” 107.

22 RMKT XVII/5, 513.

23 Pirnát, “Arisztoteliánusok és antitrinitáriusok.” The first argument of the Disputatio.

24 RMKT XVII/5, 513.

25 See Gen 4:14.

26 RMKT XVII/5, 514–15.

27 Ibid, 514.

28 Codex Máté Thoroczkai, Biblioteca Academiei Romane, Cluj-Napoca, MsU 1669-XIXb, 720–21. Modern edition: Szczucki, W kręgu myślicieli heretyckich, 243–44. Hungarian edition: Balázs, Földi és égi hitviták, 135–36. On the history of non-adamic creation theories, see Livingstone, Adam’s Ancestors; Livingstone, “The Preadamite Theory.”

29 Cf. Pirnát, “Arisztoteliánusok és antitrinitáriusok,” 370; Pirnát, Die Ideologie der Siebenbürger Antitrinitarier, 75–76. Szczucki warns that the co-Adamism of Palaeologus formulated in this work should be treated with reservation, as he makes no mention of it anywhere in his later woks. Szczucki, Filozófia és tekintély, 60.

30 According to Pirnát, the literary education of the Sabbatarian author was too superficial for him to have realized that these arguments did not come from Aristotle. He assumes a fictive dialogue in the background of the text that the Sabbatarian author may have read. Pirnát, “Arisztoteliánusok és antitrinitáriusok,” 370; Pirnát, “Christian Francken egy ismeretlen munkája,” 107.

31 Disputatio, arguments 27–35. Szczucki, Filozófia és tekintély, 114–15. According to Simone Simoni, Francken wrote a text on this subject with the title Theses de materia prima. Simon Simonius, Appendix, last page.

32 “What could be a more dangerous knowledge than one who dares to say that there is neither God nor Devil, nor resurrection, but as Aristotle says, so it was and will be.” RMKT XVII/5, 515.

33 The title of the work is Oratiuncula. Published in Elek, “Gerendi János és Franken Keresztély,” 37.

34 Pirnát, “Arisztoteliánusok és antitrinitáriusok,” 386–87.

35 Disputatio, 15th argument.

36 This text has survived in the codex Árkosi, forming a separate unit of text and copied with strikingly clear, easy-to-read letters. Published in Máté, “A szentírás apológiája.” Máté presumes that the text was written in the mid-1590s. Ibid., 192.

37 Disputatio, first page. Spectrum in Simon, Die Religionsphilosophie Christian Franckens, 192–94.

38 Szczucki, Filozófia és tekintély, 114, 118; Simon, “Politikai vallás,” 124.

39 Praecipuarum, introduction; Disputatio, 8. argument and Kapaneus Statius’ statement in the atheist catalogue. See also Simon, “Politikai vallás,” 123.

40 Disputatio, 8. argument.

41 Máté, “A szentírás apológiája,” 200. The Sabbatarian author is outraged when he describes the libertine, drunking, and carefree life advocated and practiced by the so called sophists and their master. He calls Francken a giddy, childish man, deficient since his childhood, who does not care about good reputation, honor, or humanity, and he contends that the spirit of the Devil dwells in him and that his teachings and the teachings of his adherents are “some giggles over wine” and “lies clanging like a dulcimer.” He also insists that Francken’s followers are hypocrites, flirtatious rogues, ship sails, reeds etc. Ibid., 204–6. According to the secondary literature, many of these expressions refer to Francken’s dense changes of religion as signs of some sort of opportunism. The philosopher of the Disputatio does not explicitly claim that he supports seeking joy and pleasure, but he defends all such positions attacked by the theologian (arguments 12–18) with such vehemence that the Sabbatarian author might easily have read the text as an implicit endorsement of libertine ways. Although the philosopher tries to occupy a neutral position in connection with the issues, he declares that seeking pleasure is not contrary to the law of nature or rationality. The law of nature dictates: “Do what is useful for you and brings you pleasure!” (the thirteenth and sixteenth arguments of the philosopher), “as wise nature instilled us with a desire for pleasure for good reason,” and it is only human laws that forbid it. Thus, Francken implicitly defends practices like homosexuality, the abandonment of unwanted children, the cult of the phallus, and the creation of bordellos (the sixteenth and seventeenth arguments), and this obviously met with outrage.

42 Máté, “A szentírás apológiája,” 201.

43 See the twenty-second answer of the philosopher. Simon, “Politikai vallás,” 121–22, 124. According to Simon, Francken distinguishes between the political and metaphysical use of the term “atheist.” The Latinized form of the Greek term became fashionable in sixteenth and seventeenth centuries in Europe. A dispute arose between Simon and Mario Biagioni about the contemporary meaning of the terms atheist and skepticism. See Simon, “Metaphysical Certitude” and Biagioni, “Christian Francken Sceptical.” See also Simon, “Philosophical Atheism”; Simon, “Se a hit, se a nevelés.”

44 Máté, “A szentírás apológiája,” 195.

45 According to the author, if Scripture is not true, then there is no god, because there is no other who has professed to be the creator of the world. “Thus, you are atheists, as you do not believe me to be true [the personified Scripture is speaking].” Ibid., 195.

46 Ibid., 195.

47 Pirnát, “Christian Francken egy ismeretlen munkája,” 114.

48 Ibid., 115.

49 Ibid., 116.

50 Ibid., 117.

51 Ibid., 203–4.

52 Ibid., 114, 115.

53 Ibid., 114.

54 Ibid., 115.

55 Máté, “A szentírás apológiája,” 204.

56 An example offered by the author of how remembrance works and for its imprints in later times is the story of the wrestling between Jacob and the angel. In remembrance of this event, even thousands of years later, the Jews do not eat the sciatic nerve of some animals. The other example is the Shavuot, the feast of the giving of the law. This feast also proves that Jews celebrate the revelation of the Torah not only on the basis of Scripture, but also because of the experiences of their fathers. Ibid., 198.

57 Ibid., 195–98, 202.

58 Ibid., 197.

59 Ibid., 198.

60 Ibid., 196–97.

61 Ibid., 199.

62 According to Simon, while the philosopher attacks the rationality of his opponent’s faith and argumentation, he himself uses irrational means in his reasoning (e.g. magic).

63 Máté, “A szentírás apológiája,” 196.

64 Ibid., 199.

65 Similarly, he treats religions and ritual customs equally, the so-called heretics in the same way as the ecclesiastical authority, since in his view they unjustly place themselves above the other, since after all, the faith of none of them can be proved. Disputatio, arguments 19–21.

66 Ibid., sixth argument.

67 Ibid., first argument.

68 Máté, “A szentírás apológiája,” 200.

69 In the omitted section, the author refers to suicide as a consequence of breaking the law. This is, according to the secondary literature, an intimation to Francken, who repeatedly blackmailed his Catholic superiors by threatening to commit suicide when they doubted the sincerity of his re-Catholicization. Szczucki, “Philosophie und Autorität,” 242. Cf. Máté, “A szentírás apológiája,” 190.

70 Ibid., 199.

71 Ibid., 200, 205.

72 Ibid., 202–3.

73 Ibid., 192.

74 Ibid., 200.

75 Ibid., 203.

76 Disputatio, arguments 4–5.

77 “You claim that Jews are fools. Cheat him, if he is fool! If he is fool, why do you borrow money from him? Why does he have more money than other nations, when it has no heritage at all? […] For he does not want to press clay for noble people, that is why he does not ask for his inheritance. He does not even want to rebel foolishly, seeing that not one, not two nations, but all the nations under the Sun hate him for the religio, and he does not want your lies turned into truth, because than they would go fool […] From experience, they have learned the profit of peaceful sufferance.” Máté, “A szentírás apológiája,” 205–6.

78 See the responses in the Sabbatarian text to the atheist catalogue in Máté, “A szentírás apológiája,” 200–1. On the role of the atheist catalogue in the Disputatio, see Simon, “A kleitomakhoszi,” 80–82. See also Keserű, “Christian Franckens Tätigkeit, 76–77.

79 Máté, “A szentírás apológiája,” 201. A similar dispraise can be found on the page 206: “The ratio that you feel too strong against Moses is just child’s play, as you are only the children of old sophists, your Fathers were the bucks….” Unlike Sabbatarians, Francken believed to have philosophical tools that the philosophers of Antiquity did not yet possess, and with these tools, he thought himself able to refute belief in God on a metaphysical level. See Simon, “A kleitomakhoszi” 88.

80 Máté, “A szentírás apológiája,” 204.

81 Újlaki-Nagy, Korai szombatos írások, 32. Cf. Divinarum institutio, second book, fifth chapter. Lactantius here declares that pagans and philosophers seek wisdom in the wrong places. However, he does not claim that only the Jews possess correct knowledge of God. Cf. Máté, “A szentírás apológiája,” 202.

82 Concerning this claim, see the monograph by József Simon, Die Religionsphilosophie Christian Franckens.

2021_4_Péterfi

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Multiple Loyalties in Habsburg-Hungarian Relations at the Turn of the Fifteenth and Sixteenth Century

Bence Péterfi
Research Centre for the Humanities
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Hungarian Historical Review Volume 10 Issue 4  (2021):621-652 DOI 10.38145/2021.4.621

In this essay, I examine how people with business and political interest on both sides of Austrian–Hungarian border, sometimes even in royal courts, could survive in spite of the rather capricious relationship between Hungarian kings and Habsburg rulers in the second half of the fifteenth century and the early sixteenth century. Most of them sought a solution that would enable them to keep the estates and the positions they had already acquired. This “double loyalty” was practically impossible in the midst of the war between Matthias Corvinus and Frederick III, Holy Roman emperor: very few of the figures in question managed to maintain attachments to both sides. A window of opportunity opened with the Peace of Pressburg in 1491, when the two parties recognized the possibility of service in the neighboring ruler’s service. Although the peace treaty did not alter the significant shrinking of the camp supporting the Habsburg claim to the throne, which had been relatively large in the time of the 1490–91 Austro-Hungarian War, from the 1490s on and in strikingly large numbers from the mid-1510s, more and more people could be found whose activities made plainly clear that they were not exclusive in their loyalties: they were quite able to serve two masters at the same time.

Keywords: multiple loyalties, late Middle Ages, Hungarian Kingdom, Habsburg dynastic politics, cross border contacts

 “A Hungarian will always be a Hungarian, with faith and loyalty rather unstable.” Florian Waldauf made this claim in a letter written to Sigismund, archduke of Austria in October, 1490. Waldauf was informing the archduke about the recent developments of the military expedition launched by Emperor Frederick III (1440–1493) and his son, King Maximilian I (1486/1493–1519) in the autumn of the same year.1 As the imperial army entered the Kingdom of Hungary by force, several Hungarian and Croatian noblemen yielded to it, some of whom undoubtedly did so not simply out of necessity but rather as a strategic move. For those going over to the Habsburg side, the peace treaty signed in Pressburg (Bratislava, today in Slovakia) on November 7, 1491 meant relief from retaliatory actions.2 King Vladislaus II of Bohemia (1471–1516) and Hungary (1490–1516) not only had to guarantee a pardon for these subjects of his, he also acknowledged, for the future, that they had the right to join any prince in any country outside Hungary who was not an enemy of His Majesty and the country and who had not allied with such enemies, especially the Holy Roman emperor, as wished or considered convenient, but by all means remained, like the others, obedient and loyal to Vladislaus II before all else, preserving the freedom of the country and bearing the burdens deriving from their possessions and incomes at all times.3

The Peace of Pressburg in 1491 put an end to a period which had borne witness to repeated outbreaks of conflict from the late 1470s on, the roots of which went back to the 1440s. After the death of Albert, king of the Germany and Hungary (1439), there escalated a civic war of varying intensity between the parties in order to acquire possession of the Holy Crown of Hungary and conquer the Hungarian throne as an ultimate goal: some supported the posthumous-born son of King Albert, Ladislaus (1440/1453–1457), while others supported Vladislaus I, king of Poland (1434–1444). King Vladislaus I was killed in the Battle of Varna (1444), so no rivals were left for Ladislaus the Posthumous, but the civil war was not over. At this point, some estates in Western Hungary ended up in the possession of Duke Albert of Austria for a short time and his brother, King Frederick, from the 1440s onwards, some (the smaller share) by right of pledge and some (the larger share) because they were simply taken by force. Peace with Frederick was finalized in the Treaty of Wiener Neustadt (1463) in the sixth year of the reign of the next king, Matthias Corvinus (1458–1490). The most severe “compromise” in the treaty proved to be the terms regarding the right of inheritance of the Hungarian throne. Supposedly keeping the unsatisfying and frustrating conditions in mind, Matthias Corvinus started an open conflict with the emperor in 1477 which did not come to an end until December 1487 (without any significant success). The aforementioned Peace of Pressburg not only set aside the military conflict between King Wladislaus II and his Habsburg rivals after the death of Matthias Corvinus but also confirmed the main points of the Treaty of Wiener Neustadt. Wladislaus II and Maximilian I then signed a marital agreements involving their dynasties, first in March 1506 and eventually, in its final form, in July 1515.4 Finally, the elevation of Ferdinand, archduke of Austria (1521–1564) to the throne of Hungary was based neither on the treaty of Wiener Neustadt nor on the Treaty of Pressburg, but on two symbolic acts at the time: his election in 1526 and coronation in 1527, as was also true in the case of his rival, János Szapolyai (who was elected and crowned in 1526).5

The following questions arise: 1) did the Peace of Pressburg constitute a new phenomenon that had been unknown or did it merely “legalize” it on the highest level; 2) after 1491 and before the Habsburg provinces and the Jagiellonian Kingdoms of Hungary and Bohemia were united by King Ferdinand (1526–64), how many people, if any, took advantage of the opportunity, created by the Treaty of Pressburg, to show dual loyalties and serve two rulers, a Jagiellon and a Habsburg at the same time? In order to answer these questions, I first examine the issue in general. I then consider, touching on its antecedents and with the help of some graphic examples, what the point included in the Peace of Pressburg, which may seem a bit unusual at first, actually meant in reality.

Multiple Loyalties

Today, we are perhaps more likely to think (or even judge) about loyalty in categorical terms, but apart from in times of war, loyalty has never been a simple question, as rulers and their counselors themselves quite pragmatically realized in the late Middle Ages. Undoubtedly there were some individuals who showed dual or multiple loyalties for a shorter or longer periods of time, or in other words who served and were loyal to two (or more) masters at the same time.6 Paul-Joachim Heinig stressed that for rather a long time, until the reign of Emperor Charles V (1519–1555), personal commitments predominantly showed a lack of regulation in the Holy Roman Empire. The phenomenon of “serving or being committed to more masters, could, at various levels, lead to one being given the status of familiaritas or being appointed to serve as a counselor. It was not only about titles and formality, but rather went hand in hand with certain functions.”7 Occasionally, however, contemporaries argued8 that “No man can serve two masters: for either he will hate the one, and love the other; or else he will hold to the one, and despise the other” (Mt 6.24).9 Similar arguments can be found in several pieces of medieval European poetry. The strict disapproval of multiple loyalties, however, may suggest that this kind of conduct was more common than poets wanted to admit.10 However, there may have been other “practical” reasons for references to multiple loyalties: conflicts, defections, and betrayals make a more exciting story line. Authors only rarely narrated something that seemed to favor avoiding conflicts and accepting compromise for the sake of realizing multiple interests.11

Multiple loyalty extended beyond borders: first and foremost, permeability was possible due to the identical or very similar social structure (the feudal system).12 Subjects coming from the Low Countries could easily belong to the Holy Roman emperor and to the French king as their liege lord at the same time.13 However, multiple loyalty became more and more conflicted by the growing French expansionism in the early modern period.14 Independently from the social system, actors sometimes performed services for several parties in the world of diplomacy, as recent analysis has shown, drawing on the examples of nuncios, legates, and clerks of the Holy See and the envoys of foreign rulers in Rome in the second half of the fifteenth century.15 Crossing borders between Christian and Muslim countries was not a privilege for traders at all, and sometimes Christian mercenaries paid by Muslim rulers represented the interests of Christian kings (or of the people who had commissioned them).16

The feudal system of Western Europe never set foot in the Hungarian Kingdom, which is why the findings of scholarship on multiple loyalties in Western Europe (a topic which is often intertwined with analysis of the local social system) can only be taken into account in a limited way. A member of the lower nobility, for example, was often “employed” as a so-called familiaris, a position which was distinctive to the world of Hungary and which meant belonging to the familia of a landlord, working in his service. This position had nothing to do with the position of the vassal in the feudal system.17 Based on the criterion of disloyalty, one sees where the limits of loyalty lay.18 However, no systematic analysis has been done on what it meant to be a “good” and “loyal” subject in the Hungarian Kingdom19 or what was done for and thought of loyalty and disloyalty in theory and practice.20 Positions which involved working in the service of the court constituted the highest, most prestigious slice of the “spectrum of loyalty.”21 In most cases, we do not know exactly what service involved or whether any services were actually performed. Receipts and accounts are available only from the turn of the fifteenth and sixteenth centuries on from the court of the Holy Roman emperor, certifying that someone made it onto the list of payments, or in other words received regular income for his services, but the nature of this service remains unclear.22 The source material on matters of the medieval court of the Hungarian king is even more scattered and fragmented.23

As seen from the discussion of the differing legal systems, the Hungarian-Austrian border had very sharp contours, but this did not really prevent people from crossing it and having short-term or even long-term (business) issues on the other side of the border. If one interprets the concept of loyalty loosely, multiple loyalties might also mean that, for whatever reason, someone was a landowner in one or more provinces or countries, whether these lands were under a single, autonomous sovereign or belonged to a common composite state under one ruler. In fact, in order to maintain possession of an estate successfully over the long run, a certain degree of loyalty was needed. Otherwise, the estates would have been lost. This kind of double or multiple ownership of estates, or in other words, owning estates which were in more than one country, was not a new phenomenon in the late medieval period; it may certainly be detected, albeit in a fragmented form, in the Austrian-Hungarian borderland from the thirteenth century on. From the second half of the thirteenth century, there is more and more evidence of less significant figures settling in or relocating to and acquiring smaller estates on both sides of the border.24 The will of nobleman Wolfgang Rauschar/Rauscher of Levél or Gáta, written in 1526, offers a clear indication of the places which were decisive in his life. For instance, he designated the hospital in Pressburg as a beneficiary, but also the hospitals in Hainburg and Bruck an der Leitha, right across the border.25 Noblemen were not the only people who obtained estates. Ecclesiastical institutions also did (Heiligenkreuz, Pöllau, Vorau), as did burghers, who indeed obtained them in even higher numbers (Bruck an der Leitha, Wiener Neustadt etc.), usually with vineyards in Hungary, which “enjoyed a special status since the thirteenth century, their owner having the right to sell or bequeath them to whomever he wanted as long as he cultivated them regularly.” The burghers in particular managed to make their voices heard when they repeatedly expressed their resentment for having to pay foreign trade duties, that is, the thirtieth and the ninth (nona), the tax of landlords, for the wine they produced on their own Hungarian estates.26 The predominantly German inhabitants of Pressburg and Sopron, which were both close to the border, must certainly have had interests in the territory of the Empire (owing to their numerous family ties),27 but few details are known about this.

As a consequence of the aforementioned wars in the second half of the fifteenth century, life in the Hungarian-Austrian border region became more complicated and conflicted. The world beset by party strife was vividly captured by German poet Michael Beheim, who wrote in the mid-fifteenth century, a time at which the Hungarian, Bohemian, and Austrian territories were plagued by civil war. In one of his poems, Beheim described how a Hungarian nobleman, having noticed the coat of arms on Beheim’s shield and realized that he was in the service of Ladislaus the Posthumous drove him away, shouting imprecations at him all the while for having discouraged his king from visiting Hungary.28 In another poem, Beheim gave an account of an episode when he was verbally abused at the wedding of a prominent big landowner from the Austrian-Hungarian borderland, Count Sigismund of Szentgyörgy-Bazin, in Óvár. This time, however, the source of conflict was not anti-German sentiment but tensions within the House of Habsburg. When the poet inquired as to why he was being taunted, a jester named Christopher told him that, while Beheim was on the side of Frederick III, those hurling abuse at him supported the monarch’s brother, Albert VI, archduke of Austria.29

Waldauf’s negative view of Hungarians, cited in the first sentence of this essay, may have been indirectly fed by this tumultuous period. Bad experiences were naturally engraved more deeply in the memories of those living in the borderland than they were among the inhabitants of the Tyrol (like Waldauf himself). However, the news affected those living farther from the events as well, as they could hardly avoid hearing the flood of reports. The fear of Hungarians became so intense that it was still palpable in Habsburg territories even in the mid-sixteenth century, by which time the rulers sitting on the Hungarian throne had been from the House of Habsburg for decades.30 On the other hand, it was not only Habsburg supporters who were prejudiced against the people of the Kingdom of Hungary. Similar attitudes were also prevalent among members of the Hungarian nobility.31 Later generations were also swayed by these preconceptions. The once significant royal town of Sopron, for instance, was often accused of being “two-faced” or “false-hearted” because, due to its location near the Austrian-Hungarian border, at times of political crisis, it sometimes had to adopt a prudent policy and make shows of loyalty both to the Hungarian king and the Holy Roman emperor.32

From the Empire to the Kingdom of Hungary

If we wish to have a more subtle grasp of what being in the service of more than one ruler meant after 1491, we would do well first to examine the decades before this period. Members of the Cilli retinue, who took part in the administration of their “empire” (which included lands in Carinthia, Carniola, Styria, the Kingdom of Hungary and Croatia), which fell to pieces after the assassination of Ulrich II, count of Cilli (1456), all found their way somehow. It is a well-known fact that thanks to the influential Cilli family, a great number of imperial subjects arrived in the Kingdom of Hungary as castellans or familiares.33 Nevertheless, few of them were able to achieve anything resembling the career of Bohemian mercenary captain Jan Vitovec who, in the 1450s and 1460s accumulated a considerable size and number of estates by maneuvering between Frederick III and Matthias Corvinus.34 Yet, however prominent Jan Vitovec may have been at the beginning of Matthias Corvinus’s reign, his sons were driven away from their Hungarian estates incredibly easily, by the increasingly autocratic king’s troops in 1488.35 All their significant estates in Hungary were lost, and there was probably little left of the estates amassed and owned by the mercenary captain in the territory of the Empire either. According to the records, the two sons, William and George, were on the side of the Habsburgs in 1491,36 although at this time they also enjoyed support from Matthias Corvinus’ widow, Beatrice of Aragon.37 Presumably because of his knowledge of Slavic languages, Count William was sent as an envoy by Frederick III and Maximilian I to Poland, Mazovia, and Russia in 1493–1494,38 then he became assessor of the supreme court (Kammergericht) in Wiener Neustadt. He was given the estate of Bruck an der Leitha, on the Austrian side of the border, probably as a payment for his services.39 His elder brother, Count George, was able to remain on the Hungarian estates, which were then only a fraction of their previous size, but according to the book of accounts of 1494–1495, he may have been given a place in the court of Vladislaus II.40 Complaints concerning various properties were made in George’s name,41 but the family was unable to get back most of the former estates.

Vitovec was not the only person coming from the far side of the border and settling in Western Hungary who entered the service of the Hungarian King but also kept his interests abroad for a time. In 1472, Frederick III complained to Pope Sixtus IV (1471–84) that the king of Hungary had a habit of supporting Austrian noblemen who dared to rebel against the emperor.42 Andreas Baumkircher from Carniola was one such “rebel.” Baumkircher had spent a long time in the service of the Habsburgs (as a mercenary, first of King Ladislaus the Posthumous, then of Frederick III), and he had thus obtained an estate in Western Hungary (Szalónak or Stadtschlaining, today in Austria). On the day of the treaty of Wiener Neustadt (1463), Baumkircher took an oath of loyalty to King Matthias Corvinus, and he was granted a special privilege: he was allowed to serve anyone as long as, in doing so, he caused no harm to the king of Hungary or the kingdom. Not surprisingly, Baumkircher came up as a counsellor of the emperor a few days later. He eventually turned against Frederick III, however, going over to the side of Matthias Corvinus in 1469. In 1471, the emperor had Baumkircher arrested and executed, and neither the Inner Austrian estates or Matthias Corvinus made any protest.43 Thanks to an agreement between the emperor and Baumkircher’s widow and sons in 1472, the family would receive compensation for Baumkircher’s estates on the territory of the Holy Roman Empire, though there is no clear evidence that the whole amount of money was ever actually transferred to them.44 By the end of the fifteenth century, the major part of the estates of the two sons, Wilhelm and Georg,45 consisted of Császárvár (Cesargrad, today in Croatia) and Szalónak, in the territory of the Kingdom of Hungary, and Rohonc (Rechnitz, today in Austria), bought in July 1490.46 Despite the fact that the Austrian-Hungarian war of 1490–1491 probably also hit his Hungarian estates situated close to the border, Wilhelm Baumkircher did not end up among Maximilian’s troops invading the Kingdom of Hungary but rather joined the supporters of Vladislaus II, crowned king of Hungary in 1490,47 and stayed at his side until his death in 1492. He was rewarded for his loyalty with the position of treasurer for a short time.48 Probably due to considerations of property rights, his brother Georg Baumkircher kept his Austrian estate Kirchschlag49 (which he held by right of pledge) when he entered the service of the Habsburgs in 1493, though he did not choose Frederick III, his father’s executioner, but his son, Maximilian I.50 However, records from 1494 refer to Georg Baumkircher as now (or continually?) a counselor to Vladislaus II.51 Although it is not clear that he played these roles at the same time, one thing is for sure: while the father could not manage to strike a successful balance between his loyalties to the two rulers in wartime, his son managed to do so in a time of peace.

Sigmund Weispriach, a brother-in-law of Jan Vitovec, set foot first as captain of Fraknó (Forchtenstein, today in Austria) in the 1450s in Hungary, serving Frederick III at that time. In 1466, rewarding him for leaving Frederick III’s side and joining the Hungarian king, Matthias Corvinus donated Sigmund the estates of Fraknó and Kabold (Kobersdorf, today in Austria), and privileged Sigmund, among others, to use the arms of the former counts of Fraknó. For the following eight years, he was ispán of Sopron county in Western Hungary and, for a while, he even served as captain of the town of Sopron. Meanwhile, he was possibly able to keep his offices on the other side of the border, namely the captaincy of Pettau (Ptuj, today in Slovenia), which belonged, however, to the authority of the archbishop of Salzburg.52 The path to the Hungarian king’s service was less direct for his sons, Ulrich and Andreas.53 In January 1475, Andreas was said to be a courtier (aulicus) of Corvinus.54 In December 1479, the brothers and their widowed mother refused to open the gates of the Castle of Pettau for the troops of the Hungarian king under an agreement between Corvinus and the archbishop of Salzburg.55 It was probably due to the Hungarian invasions in Styria and Carinthia in the early 1480s as well as a financial conflict of financing mercenaries with Frederick III at the same time that Andreas went over to Matthias Corvinus’s side in 148256 and, following in his father’s footsteps, he became ispán of Sopron.57 Later, as a courtier (“unnser diener, hofgesind”) of Corvinus he was even imprisoned by the emperor for a time, against which the Hungarian king tried to take action.58 Matthias took Ulrich von Weispriach under his protection around December 1485 and made him a member of the royal court (“zu unserm diener und hofgesind”).59 In the case of the Weispriachs, too, a serious break came with the aforementioned 1488 campaign against the Vitovec.60 After that, they came to serve Frederick III and Maximilian I, participated in the aforementioned Habsburg invasion of 1490, and Andreas von Weispriach became captain of the Hungarian town of Veszprém, which was occupied by imperial troops.61 After the Peace of Pressburg, the Weispriach family remained in control of the estate of Kabold and acquired the pawned estate of Kosztel (Kostelgrad, today in Croatia).62 The sources offer no indication that they performed any services for the Hungarian royal court after 1490. They started (or kept) collecting estates in the Habsburg lands, and they were commissioned by King Maximilian to perform some services: Ulrich Weispriach, for example, became governor (Landeshauptmann) of Carinthia (1500–1503).63

The third person arriving from the territory of the empire and dominant from a political perspective was Ulrich von Grafeneck from Swabia, who obtained his first estates in 1447 in Hungary (Sopronkertes or Baumgarten, today in Austria) in the service of Frederick III. In the early 1450s, he served as the castellan of Kőszeg, which at the time was occupied by the emperor’s troops. At the turn of the 1450s and 1460s, Frederick III appointed him to serve as ispán of Sopron county. At the same time, Grafeneck got hold of the estate of Trautmansdorf on the Austrian side of the border (1459) and, gradually, further estates in the Archduchy of Austria. In addition to increasing his wealth, Grafeneck also successfully expanded his network of connections. In the late 1460s, he was often seen around Matthias Corvinus, and he even received an estate from the king (Scharfeneck, 1470). In those days, he clearly tried to achieve a balance by serving both rulers. The cracks in the relationship between Grafeneck and the emperor were probably caused by Andreas Baumkircher’s execution in 1471. Grafeneck took part in a feud (Fehde) led by several Austrian noblemen against the empire, which enjoyed the overt backing of the Hungarian king himself. Eventually, Grafeneck and the emperor reached an agreement in early 1477. In return for 50,000 Rhenish guilders, Grafeneck would give up all his estates in Austria. Not much later (before the spring of 1478), though, the Swabian nobleman went back to supporting Frederick III, then, after further unknown turns, he returned to the service of the Hungarian king. It is possible that in 1487 he was about to change sides again, but this was something the Hungarian king would not tolerate, and it is possible that Grafeneck was killed at his behest. There is no indication in the sources that any of his descendants performed any services for the court. They maintained ownership of (or at least their rights to) both their Hungarian and Austrian estates until they sold them in 1504.64

From the Kingdom of Hungary to the Empire

It was not unusual at all, in the fifteenth century, for Hungarian and Croatian nobles in the service of the Habsburgs to maintain their contacts with the Hungarian king.65 Yet the strategy of Emperor Frederick III and his son, Maximilian I, brought new elements, quite similar to the “methods” used by Matthias Corvinus: they exerted influence on the dynastic policy of their neighboring rival, made some subjects falter in their loyalty by making them various offers, and then built a group of followers who would work to further their dynastic policy, which aimed at destabilization and securing local support for possible military action. This method was particularly used in the period between 1440 and the Peace of Wiener Neustadt in 1463 and the period after 1491. After Matthias Corvinus’s death (1490), and later the Habsburg rulers continuously gave indications of their desire to do so. One of the most emphatic examples of these efforts was the funeral procession of Frederick III (December 6–7, 1493). According to the diplomatic protocol, Maximilian I, delegates of the Holy See and of Charles VIII of France were followed by two emissaries of Vladislav II: Tamás Bakóc, bishop of Eger, and Miklós Bánfi of Alsólendva. They were not the only subjects of the king of Hungary present at the funeral: Hungarian noblemen were also seen in the procession symbolizing the lands of Frederick III. Representing the Holy Roman emperor’s title as king of Hungary, they marched with the coat of arms of the Kingdom of Hungary, right in front of the people symbolizing the Empire, and were last but one (in other words, the second most important figures) in the entire procession. Four of the five delegates can be identified. Two of them were individuals who had recently risen to prominence (Jakab Székely of Kövend and János Kishorvát), and two of them were from prestigious Hungarian noble families (Miklós Szécsi of Felsőlendva and János Ellerbach of Monyorókerék).66 The fact that these noblemen represented the interests of the Holy Roman emperor in the funeral procession was probably a consequence of their serving the Habsburgs during the war of 1490–1491 and continuing to maintain their network of relationships.

In the period after the Peace of Pressburg in 1491, for Frederick III and Maximilian I, openly supporting those loyal to the Habsburgs would have meant weakening the peace treaty, which had been signed to strengthen the Habsburg claim to the throne in the first place, so their followers could only count on some informal support. At the turn of 1494–1495, the news of the ongoing military campaign ordered by Vladislav II against Duke Lőrinc Újlaki reached Maximilian I, who at the time was in Antwerp, somewhat differently: The Hungarian king and his counselors were settling accounts with Maximilian’s former and present supporters instead of dealing with the Ottoman threat. The king of the Romans did not wish to violate the peace agreement, nor did he want to let down his followers, who were “his only joy and comfort in the Kingdom of Hungary,” and who (and here he was clearly referring to his estates in the south) would “also serve as a shield against the Ottomans.” Therefore, he intended to send a delegation to the Kingdom of Hungary to address the conflicts and more soldiers to fight against the Ottomans.67 This “hesitation” probably paralyzed the supporters of the Habsburg’s claim to the throne, and in time, their numbers dropped. As time passed, the threat of the Ottoman Empire likewise diverted the attention of the inhabitants of the southern regions, including Maximilian I’s former followers. Perhaps it was despair due to the hopeless situation that motivated Ferenc Beriszló in 1511 to revive his earlier relationships with the House of Habsburg, for as former ban of Jajce (1494–1495, 1499–1503), Beriszló knew very well what the Ottoman threat entailed. In his own name and the name of his brother, Bertalan Beriszló, prior of Vrana, he offered his services to Maximilian I,68 and then to the chancellor of Tyrol, Zyprian von Serntein.69

In the former letter,70 Beriszló also mentioned his joint service he had performed earlier with János Kishorvát. He may have been referring to the civil war of 1490–91, but that he had another in mind is also possible, as he and Kishorvát had served the emperor for several years. Yet as an envoy of Matthias Corvinus in 1489 in the Ottoman Empire,71 two years later during the preparatory meetings for the Treaty of Pressburg, Kishorvát represented fellow Hungarian and Croatian noblemen finding themselves on the side of the Habsburgs,72 and in the spring of 1492, he was seen, with many others, in Habsburg service in military campaigns against the Ottomans.73 It was probably on the grounds of his military services that he lay claim to some smaller or greater sums of money, which can be traced in the documents concerning him from late 1496 on.74 At the same time, the amount owed to Kishorvát was so large that, in 1497, the Holy Roman emperor gave him Arnfels, an estate in Styria.75 Kishorvát received half of the 6,000 guilders, Maximilian’s debt, in June 1506 but the rest was considerably delayed: part of the arrears was still unpaid in 1524, years after Kishorvát’s death.76 Like Beriszló, Kishorvát had estates in southern Hungary, so it is quite possible that he was motivated to serve the emperor at least in part because of the dire necessities he faced back home. He also may have been tempted to serve the Habsburgs because he lost his Hungarian estates by the mid-1490s as a consequence of his highly aggressive, sometimes even criminal activity,77 and it became impossible for him to prosper in the political sphere. In 1503, when Kishorvát and his brother-in-law, Lőrinc Bánfi of Gara, got back a part of their estates with the help of Duke John Corvin (under the condition that, in absence of any heir, the estates would become the property of the Corvin line), Kishorvát obliged himself to serve the duke but nobody else.78 He was chosen to be one of the executors of duke’s will after the death of Corvin (1504).79 However, we can assume, given the large debt which had been incurred by the Habsburg court, that Kishorvát’s contacts with the Habsburg court were eagerly kept.80

Alongside Kishorvát, Jakab Székely of Kövend was also in the permanent service of the Habsburgs. In the 1470s, he took on military service in Matthias Corvinus’s court, and he played important roles in the king’s campaigns against the Habsburg lands in the 1480s and even obtained estates in Styria. His decision to change sides was not prompted by the Ottoman threat, but rather by the hope to protect and keep his estates in the Habsburg lands, which he had received in the 1480s. He proved successful in these efforts. The fact that certain sources in the Holy Roman Empire refer to Jakab Székely as a counselor (Rat) of Maximilian I may indicate that he held a position of some distinction but was never a real insider.81 His place of origin and the fact that he owned a considerable number of estates in the Kingdom of Hungary in the 1490s played almost no role in his services to the empire, with the exception of Frederick III’s funeral procession in 1493. The tasks he was given required loyalty and reliability, such as military missions in Italy (e.g. in 1496) and the Habsburg provinces or supporting the emperor in his disputes with the Styrian estates. Occasionally, Székely participated in negotiations and diplomatic missions. It is also possible that sometimes he was consulted in issues concerning Hungary. Perhaps the greatest achievement of his career was his triumph in ensuring that both his brother and his sons would have opportunities to move up in the ranks in the Hungarian royal court, thus considerably expanding their room for maneuver.82

Among the families permanently in the service of the Habsburgs, as opposed to the Hungarian royal court, some of the most prominent members of the Hungarian and Croatian nobility can be found. Among the counts of Szentgyörgy and Bazin, who had close connections to both the Moravian-Bohemian83 and the Austrian-South German84 nobility through kinship and estates, the most important supporters of the Habsburg court were John and Sigismund, who lived in the fifteenth century and whose political role was especially notable in the 1440–60s,85 that is, at the time when the Habsburgs were particularly active in their foreign policies towards the Kingdom of Hungary and Hungary was struggling with serious internal conflicts. And although in the end, the family returned to being loyal supporters of the Hungarian king (mainly because of their important Hungarian estates), their network of connections, the prestige they had won, and their knowledge of German were not wasted, and this sometimes made them seem suspicious in the eyes of several fellow Hungarians, who feared that they might be engaged in malicious negotiations against the Hungarian king.86 It was due to the close-knit network that, in June 1480, a few months after the third Austrian-Hungarian war broke out, Frederick III and counts Sigismund and John made an agreement that would guarantee peace between the two parties with a non-aggression pact, and protect the counts’ estates in Moson County from being taken away by the emperor.87 Count John’s and Sigismund’s orientation to the House of Habsburg was partly followed by Sigismund’s son, Thomas,88 and the half-brother, Christopher, who was in the service of the Habsburgs in 1506.89 Christopher’s ambitions may also have derived from the fact that, thanks to his wife, Elisabeth von Neidberg, he acquired quite a few estates in Styria, which Maximilian I topped up with an estate in pledge (Wachsenegg) in 1501.90

John and Sigismund of Szentgyörgy and Bazin may also have been the people who were able to gain a foothold in the Duchy of Bavaria, though for reasons yet unknown.91 It was, however not them or their lineal descendants, but Count Francis of Szentgyörgy and Bazin, who belonged to another branch of the family, who entered the service of Albert IV, duke of Bavaria (1467–1508).92 It is thus possible that, during the negotiations for the marriage between his son, William IV, duke of Bavaria (1508–1550), and the sister of King Vladislaus II of Hungary and Bavaria (1509–1510), Peter of Szentgyörgy and Bazin, voivode of Transylvania, was purposely commissioned to be the chief negotiator on behalf of the Hungarian party, as he had a good knowledge of both Bavaria and the German language owing to his relatives.93

The Croatian Frankopan family, which had huge estates in the southern regions of the Kingdom of Hungary and Croatia, was also traditionally oriented to the House of Habsburg. Except for a short period, Count Stephen Frankopan was ban of Croatia from 1434 to 1437,94 and between 1436 and 144095 and then again between 1453 and 1454 he served as governor (Landeshauptmann) of Carniola,96 a position that his brother, Duim Frankopan probably also held between 144497 and 1447.98 At the same time, the growing number of members of the Frankopan family in the service of the Habsburgs is also quite notable.99 At the turn of the fifteenth and sixteenth centuries, Michael Frankopan (from the Slunj line) and his cousins John and Nicholas Angelo (from the Trsat line), as well as John and Nicholas from the Cetin line are noted to have been in the service of the court.100 Bernard from the Modruš line of the Frankopan family may also have had close relations with the House of Habsburg, but the details are unknown.101 In November 1509, Maximilian I reinforced Bernard’s previously granted privileges in the empire (his title as palatine) with reference to the services he had performed.102 The services rendered by Bernard Frankopan’s son Christoph for the Habsburgs in the 1510s and 1520s are among the most documented cases. In 1522–1523, he was Master of the Horse (grand escuier d’escuierie) in Archduke Ferdinand’s court, which, given his role in the War of the League of Cambrai (1508–1516), should be interpreted not as a “classical” position in the court but as a function on the battlefield.103 Presumably maintaining his remarkably good relations with the archduke,104 in 1525 Frankopan appeared as one of the familiares of Louis II of Hungary and Bohemia and then as one of his counselors.105 As in the case of the aforementioned noblemen from the south of Hungary and Croatia, fear of the Ottomans was a decisive factor among fellow Croatian noblemen. Keeping contacts with the Habsburg House and their officials, moreover, receiving financial and military support from them in the 1520s provided a partial solution to the Ottoman threat106 that could, however, give some extraordinary answers to loyalty issues. As Lajos Thallóczy puts it:

the court of Buda was not too delighted to see Christoph, Wolfgang, George and Matthias Frankopan, as well as Stephen Blagajski in the service of Ferdinand, but the same noblemen both frequented the court of Buda and accepted a soldier’s pay from Archduke Ferdinand. This could be accounted for by claiming that, as landowners at the border of Carniola, they were protecting the Austrian territories from the Ottomans too, and the payment they received from the archduke was in fact a contribution to the defense of their own country.107

Although several members of the Kanizsai family, which had estates in the Austrian-Hungarian borderland and enjoyed considerable prestige in the Kingdom of Hungary, likewise served the Habsburgs in times of crisis and civil war, despite their marriages with Austrian families, their service did not prove long-lasting. The only exception was János Kanizsai, whose demonstrable service to the Habsburg court beginning in 1498 can hardly be explained. At the same time, Kanizsai did not give up serving the King of Hungary either (as the ispán of Sopron and ban of Jajce, i.e. a holder of an important military office in the anti-Ottoman defense system), and he kept his estates in Hungary. Initially, he was probably employed as a military man with some horses, then, from the mid-1510s, when he moved to Austria, his service might have involved a permanent presence at the imperial court.108

The fact that János Kanizsai was able to have such a remarkable career may be due in no small part to the intertwining of the Jagiellonian and the Habsburg dynasties. The mutual attitude of distrust, which lasted until 1506 (i.e. until the Treaty of Vienna, which was signed after a short war between Maximilian and Vladislaus II) and, in certain respects, until 1515 (i.e. until the agreements made at the First Congress of Vienna), was obviously not too favorable for the development of such careers. From 1515 on, however, subjects had more room than ever before to find easy transit between the provinces ruled by the dynasties and their courts. The joint courts of young princesses Anna of Jagiello and Marie of Habsburg, who were brought up together in Innsbruck between 1516 and 1521, served as a king of melting pot for the elites, leading to marriages between female and male members of the court.109 It was, however, not the only place where intertwining interests can be seen. One of the master of courts of King Louis II was said to have been a counsellor to Emperor Maximilian I at the same time.110 In 1518, Maximilian I took István Hásságyi, chamberlain of Louis II, into his own service for an annual payment of 200 guilders.111 The assignment of Stefan von Zinzendorf from the Archduchy of Austria was probably partly an undercover maneuver: in February 1516, the Holy Roman emperor gave orders “secretly” to pay him 200 Rhenish guilders for his future services. Zinzendorf’s task was to espouse the issues of Emperor Maximilian I and support them at the Hungarian and Bohemian royal courts. The Austrian nobleman continued performing this task after the death of Vladislaus II in March 1516, following the emperor’s orders, in the court of the new king.112

In the 1510s and 1520s, Péter Erdődi was present in the courts of both Vladislaus II and Louis II,113 but from 1522, in parallel with his service for the latter, he was a familiaris and counselor in the court of Archduke Ferdinand as well.114 It would be difficult to deny that the decisive factor behind this career was his powerful relative, Tamás Bakóc, cardinal and archbishop of Esztergom, who also participated in the First Congress of Vienna in 1515. In 1522, Péter Erdődi obtained the estate belonging to Kőszeg (situated in Western Hungary, under Habsburg rule at the time) by right of pledge, as a result of an agreement to resolve a long financial dispute between Maximilian I and Bakóc, both deceased by then.115

Summary

In a formal or informal way, the persons discussed above all tried to balance between the Hungarian royal court and the court of the Habsburgs in the hopes of ensuring their own prosperity and the prosperity of their families. Such relationships, however, involved great risks, especially in times of war. Some of these individuals were executed (Andreas Baumkircher, for instance), while others “only” lost their estates when suspected of disloyalty to the king (such as the sons of Jan Vitovec).

While at the time of the conflicts between Frederick III and Matthias Corvinus it was primarily those who took the side of the Hungarian king who were able to pursue successful careers, after 1491, the situation reversed, and those who were on the side of the Habsburgs seemed to have more opportunities. However, this was not simply a “180-degree turn,” as the period after 1491 was not the exact opposite of the previous one. Rather, it differed in terms of its dynamics and the logic of power, as well as the ways in which one could adapt this logic. The post-1491 period was less about great changes and, for those supporting the cause of the Habsburgs, definitely more about careful maneuvering. Considerable change was only brought about by turns in the dynasty in 1506 and 1515. Perhaps it is not only the wealth of sources which allows us to identify so many instances of dual loyalties to different rulers and ties to the courts from the mid-1510s, or in other words precisely the time when Anna Jagiellon and Mary of Austria were brought up together on Habsburg soil.

The section of the Peace of Pressburg quoted at the beginning of this essay indeed makes mention of a kind of career which may not have been widespread but which was not completely unknown, neither in the borderlands nor in the royal courts. Including this section in the peace treaty probably served the purpose of reassuring the then numerous Habsburg supporters for many of whom the possibility of serving the House of Habsburg would become unrealistic within a few years: they could not expect any military aid from Maximilian I, as a few of the noblemen in the southern regions, who had fallen into despair because of the ever more impending threat of Ottoman encroachment, had already experienced firsthand. The winds of change could also be felt when, due to the Ottoman threat, Louis II and his brother-in-law Archduke Ferdinand were frequently forced to cooperate in the beginning of the 1520s, which was a new situation for both of them. It meant that, besides the royal courts, in which double loyalties had a place as a consequence of the Habsburg–Jagiellon dynastic agreements in 1515, serving two lords (i.e. the Habsburgs and the Jagiellons) became also possible on the Hungarian-Croatian military border for the sake of a more efficient defense system.

Archival Sources

Bayerisches Hauptstaatsarchiv, Munich (BHStA)

Abteilung I (Ältere Bestände)

Herzogtum Bayern (HB)

Ämterrechnungen bis 1506

Kurbayern (KB)

Äußeres Archiv (ÄA)

Magyar Nemzeti Levéltár Országos Levéltára [Hungarian National Archives, State Archive], Budapest (MNL OL)

Fényképgyűjtemény [Photo Collections]

Diplomatikai Fényképgyűjtemény [The Photo Collection of Medieval Documents] (DF)

Magyar kincstári levéltárak [The Treasury Archives of the Hungarian Kingdom]

Magyar Kamara archivuma [The Archive of the Hungarian Chamber]

Vegyes iratok, ügyviteli segédletek, pecsétnyomók [Mixed Files, Finding Aids, Seals]

A bécsi Udvari Kamarai Levéltárban őrzött segédkönyvek és iratok másolatai [Copies of Finding Aids and Files Kept in the Archive of the Treasury in Vienna] (E 239)

Mohács előtti gyűjtemény [Collection of Medieval Documents]

Diplomatikai Levéltár [The Archive of Medieval Documents] (DL)

Österreichisches Staatsarchiv, Vienna (ÖStA)

Allgemeine Verwaltungsarchiv (AVA)

Adelsarchiv

Reichsadelsakten (RAA)

Finanz- und Hofkammerarchiv (FHKA)

Alte Hofkammer, Hoffinanz (AHK)

Gedenkbücher (GB)

Haus-, Hof- und Staatsarchiv (HHStA)

Reichsarchive

Reichskanzlei (RK)

Reichsregisterbücher (RRB)

Maximiliana

Urkundenreihen, Siegelabguß- und Typarsammlung

Urkundenreihen (UR)

Allgemeine Urkundenreihe (AUR)

Sonderbestände

Familienarchiv Erdődy (FA Erdődy)

Urkunden (D)

Országos Széchényi Könyvtár [Széchényi National Library], Budapest

Kézirattár [Manuscript Collection] (OSZKK)

Steiermärkisches Landesarchiv, Graz (StLA)

Allgemeine Urkundenreihe (AUR)

Tiroler Landesarchiv, Innsbruck (TLA)

Landesfürstliche Hofkanzleien

Sigmundiana

Mischbestände

Pestarchiv-Akten

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1* This study was supported by postdoctoral grant no. PD 124903 and research group no. K 134690 of the National Research, Development and Innovation Office (NKFIH), Hungary, and the János Bolyai Research Scholarship of the Hungarian Academy of Science. I am indebted to Tibor Neumann, Tamás Pálosfalvi, Renáta Skorka and the two anonymous reviewers for their useful comments.
“… aber ein Hunger ist ein Hunger, des glawben vnd trew gantz vnstet ist…” Kraus, Maximilian’s Beziehungen, 35, no. 11.

2 See Wiesflecker, “Das erste Ungarnunternehmen”; Neumann, “Két sorsdöntő esztendő”; E. Kovács, “Miksa magyarországi hadjárata”; Wolf, Die Doppelregierung, 252–72. For the latest assessment of the 1491 Peace of Pressburg see Neumann, “Békekötés Pozsonyban.”

3 Ausgewählte Urkunden, 433.

4 For a new analysis of the period between 1440 and 1464, see Pálosfalvi, “Koronázástól koronázásig.” On the foreign affairs of the reign of King Matthias Corvinus, see Nehring, Matthias Corvinus. On Habsburg-Jagiello dynastic relations, see Das Wiener Fürstentreffen (especially the article by István Tringli). On the Habsburg occupation of Western Hungary, see Bariska, A Szent Koronáért and Csermelyi, “Zwischen Kaiser und König,” 23–30.

5 Pálffy, A Magyar Királyság, 52–59. (The Hungarian version of the monograph is more detailed than the English translation, which is why I cite it instead of the English.)

6 E.g. Heinig, “Römisch-deutscher Herrscherhof,” 232–5; Hesse, Amtsträger, 223–26; Kintzinger, “Servir deux princes”; Metz, “Diener zweier Herren”; Moraw, “Gedanken,” 58–59; Peters, “ ‘Gespaltene Treue’ ” (with the latest literature on the topic of multiple loyalties).

7 “Zugleich mehreren Herren zu dienen oder wenigstens verpflichtet zu sein, ist auf verschiedenen Ebenen bis hin zur Familiarität, zu Ratsernennungen etc. geronnen. Dies waren nicht nur Titulaturen oder Formalia, sondern damit waren auch bestimmte Funktionen verbunden.” – Heinig, “Römisch-deutscher Herrscherhof,” 233.

8 For instance, in the context of Hungarian landlord, Nicolaus Olahus, and his familiaris: Olahus, Epistulae, 477 no. 359, 484 no. 366.

9 See also Lk 16.13.

10 Oschema, “Der loyale Freund,” 28–29; Terada, “Doppelte Lehensbindung,” 137.

11 Peters, “ ‘Gespaltene Treue’.”

12 The earliest traces of double loyalty come up in 1037 in France and in 1074 in the Holy Roman Empire: Deutinger, “Seit wann,” 97–98. For a short overview of the genesis and problematic points of the “feudal” system in the Holy Roman Empire, see Deutinger, “Das hochmittelalterliche Lehnswesen.”

13 E.g. Croenen, “Regions,” 149–53. (Most of the literature concerning the Middle Ages in the Low Countries was inaccessible to me.)

14 Spangler, “Those in Between.”

15 Untergehrer, Die päpstlichen nuntii und legati, 264–73.

16 Jaspert, “Zur Loyalität.”

17 Engel, The Realm, 127–28.

18 “Online Decreta Regni Mediaevalis Hungariae,” 1216–17, 1390–91 (István Werbőczy’s Tripartitum, I. 13). See also Bónis, Hűbériség, 530–32 (in the reprinted version: 374–75).

19 See Oschema, “Der loyale Freund,” 32–33.

20 See Rehberg, “Reziprozität,” 438–42 and Spieß, “Loyalität.”

21 On trust generally, see e.g. Schulte, “The Concept of Trust.” On the same topic and the notion of trustworthiness in the courts of the princes of the Holy Roman Empire (Reichsfürsten), see Hirschbiegel, Nahbeziehungen.

22 On the sources of the court of Habsburgs around 1500, see Noflatscher, “‘Die Heuser Österreich vnd Burgund’.”

23 Recently started, a four-year-long research project was launched which will offer systematic research on this topic: The Hungarian Royal Court in the Reign of King Matthias and the Jagiellonian Kings (1458–1526): A Biographical Encyclopedia, NKFIH no. K 134690, principal investigator: Tibor Neumann.

24 See for example the Stuchs family, which owned estates both in the Principality of Austria and the Kingdom of Hungary: Trauttmansdorff, Beitrag. Brunner offers a more comprehensive picture: Brunner, “Der burgenländische Raum zwischen Österreich und Ungarn, 800 bis 1848,” 270–71, 284–85; Allgemeine Landestopographie des Burgenlandes, vol. 2, part 1, 35–37.

25 MNL OL DL 49819.

26 Prickler, “Adalékok”; Prickler, “Weingartenbesitz”; Prickler, “Zur Geschichte”; Engel, The Realm, 275 (citation).

27 See Majorossy, “Egy város.”

28 Die Gedichte des Michel Beheim, vol. 2, 788–91, no. 356.

29 Die Gedichte des Michel Beheim, vol. 2, 652–54, no. 324; Bleyer, “Beheim,” 530–31.

30 Pálffy, A Magyar Királyság, 111. See also Petrin, “Der Verkauf.”

31 Kubinyi, “Az 1505-ös rákosi országgyűlés.”

32 Szende, “Fidelitas.”

33 Miljan, “Grofovi”; Klaužer, “Plemićka obitelj Frodnacher”; Klaužer, “Plemićka obitelj Lausinger.”

34 Ban and Mirnik, “Die Münzen”; Pálosfalvi, “Vitovec János.”

35 Péterfi, “Korvin János.”

36 Deutsche Reichstagsakten: Mittlere Reihe, vol. 4, 691, 696, 704.

37 MNL OL DF 276742.

38 Regesta Imperii XIV, no. 538, MNL OL DL 82076, fol. 5r.

39 Regesta Imperii XIV, no. 4839, ÖStA HHStA RK Maximiliana Kt. 7, Konv. 4/1, fol. 216r, Regesta Imperii XIV, no. 6273, no. 11856, no. 12395, no. 18817, no. 18892, no. 18896, no. 18904, no. 19069, ÖStA HHStA RK Maximiliana Kt. 42, IV/7a, fol. 175r.

40 Neumann, Registrum, passim.

41 E.g. MNL OL DL 101215, DF 233348, DF 276756.

42 Codex epistolaris saeculi decimi quinti, vol. 3, 266–67 no. 241.

43 See Csermelyi, “Idegen származású,” 160–70, 190 n. 948. On the execution of Baumkircher, see Schäffer, “Untreue und Verrat.”

44 Csermelyi, “Idegen származású,” 170.

45 See Csermelyi, “Idegen származású,” 170–75.

46 Engel, “Andreas Baumkircher,” 252.

47 See Neumann, “Békekötés Pozsonyban,” part 1, 357 and n. 120, 359, 363–64.

48 Neumann, “Békekötés Pozsonyban,” part 2, 333.

49 See Neumann, “Békekötés Pozsonyban,” part 1, 367 and part 2, 303. Regarding the Baumkircher interests in Austria see Regesta Imperii XIV, no. 2934, no. 8041; Neumann, “Békekötés Pozsonyban,” part 1, 368. (literature regarding the “Baumkircherschuld” and the case of Katsch).

50 MNL OL DL 103999. See Neumann, “Békekötés Pozsonyban,” part 2, 338. It is worth mentioning that possibly in the summer or autumn of 1490, Prince Christoph of Bavaria and others were commissioned by Emperor Frederick III or King Maximilian I to “convert” Georg Baumkircher into Habsburg service. TLA, Landesfürstliche Hofkanzleien, Sigmundiana XIII/254, Nr. 29 (fol. 36r–v).

51 Neumann, Registrum, 219 n. 1030–31.

52 See Csermelyi, “Idegen származású,” 188–92, and C. Tóth et al., Magyarország, vol. 2, 233.

53 See Csermelyi, “Idegen származású,” 192–97.

54 Ibid., 82.

55 Mátyás király levelei, vol. 1, 448–49, no. 302 (in the reprinted version: 534).

56 Heinicker, “ ‘Sold und schaden’,” 81; Csermelyi, “Idegen származású,” 193, n. 962 (arguing for 1481).

57 C. Tóth et al., Magyarország, vol. 2, 234.

58 MNL OL DL 37151.

59 MNL OL DF 258172.

60 Péterfi, “Korvin János,” 169, 172–76.

61 StLA AUR 8615, Unrest, Österreichische Chronik, 190 (chapter 185) as well as Thurocz, Der Hungern chronica, fol. 63r. See also Csermelyi, “Idegen származású,” 194.

62 ÖStA HHStA UR AUR 1493 IV 14 (two charters), MNL OL DF 233236, DF 248689. See also Csermelyi, “Idegen származású,” 195.

63 Ibid., 194–96.

64 Haller-Reiffenstein, “Ulrich von Grafeneck.” See also Csermelyi, “Idegen származású,” 175–88, 212.

65 In 1312, Master of the Treasury Miklós Kőszegi declared his intention to serve both Charles I, king of Hungary (1301–1342) and Frederick the Fair (or Frederick the Handsome), duke of Austria (1308–1330) (Anjou-kori oklevéltár, vol. 3, 106 no. 223). When in 1374, Count Nicholas “the German” of Fraknó or Nagymarton (Mattersburg, today in Austria) entered the service of Albert III, duke of Austria (1365–1395), he not only offered his services but was also ready to make his entire estate of Fraknó available to support the duke. In case of military conflict, Count Nicholas was not obliged to rush to the duke’s aid against King Louis I of Hungary (1342–1382), although the condition itself became irrelevant after the death of the former: making contact or negotiating with the heir to Louis I was only allowed with the knowledge and approval of the Austrian duke (Lichnowsky, Geschichte, vol. 4, dclxxxviii, no. 1192, Wertner, “Die Grafen von Mattersdorf-Forchtenstein,” 59).

66 Borsa, “Néhány bécsi,” vol. 3, 79–82; Pálffy, “Ungarn,” 37–38.

67 Regesta Imperii XIV, no. 1298.

68 MNL OL DF 258444.

69 MNL OL DF 258445.

70 MNL OL DF 258444.

71 Balogh, A művészet, vol. 1, 60.

72 See Neumann, “Békekötés Pozsonyban,” part 1, 367–68.

73 TLA Pestarchiv-Akten XXV/87, [no. 3].

74 Regesta Imperii XIV, no. 4784, no. 4792, no. 7789, no. 15075.

75 Regesta Imperii XIV, no. 4785–6. See also ÖStA HHStA UR AUR 1506 IV 16 (April 16, 1506).

76 See ÖStA HHStA UR AUR 1506 IV 16 (April 16, 1506 and June 11, 1506), ÖStA HHStA UR AUR 1518 X 18, MNL OL E 239, vol. 14, p. 318–19 (original: ÖStA AVA FHKA AHK Gedenkbücher, Österreichische Reihe 22, fol. 320r).

77 E.g. MNL OL DL 20269. See ÖStA HHStA UR AUR 1518 X 18, fol. 2r.

78 Schönherr, Hunyadi Corvin János, 297.

79 DF 254494. He is not mentioned among the executors: Schönherr, Hunyadi Corvin János, 304.

80 ÖStA HHStA UR AUR 1506 IV 16 (April 16, 1506).

81 Wiesflecker, Kaiser Maximilian, vol. 5, 284–85.

82 Péterfi, “Aus Siebenbürgen.”

83 Pokluda, “Magyarországi nemesek,” 238, 240, 272.

84 Wertner, “Die Grafen von St. Georgen und Bösing,” 257–58.

85 See Heinig, Kaiser Friedrich III., vol. 1, passim.

86 Horváth, “Magyar Regesták,” 71, no. 176.

87 Chmel, Actenstücke, vol. 3, 282–83, no. 118.

88 Regesta Imperii XIV, no. 185 (indirect evidence), no. 8321.

89 He would exclusively serve Maximilian I for an annual payment of 200 Rhenish guilders, with the single exception being Vladislaus II of Hungary. MNL OL DL 21614.

90 E.G. Regesta Imperii XIV, no. 12456.

91 See BHStA KB ÄA 973, fol. 51r-v.

92 E.G. BHStA Herzogtum Bayern, Ämterrechnungen bis 1506, Bd. 1123 (“Jahrgang 1504/1505”), fol. 86v.

93 Marth, Die dynastische Politik, 208–24.

94 Engel, Magyarország, vol. 1, 26.

95 Kozina, Die Landeshauptleute, 15–16. See Dimitz, Geschichte Krains, vol. 1, 328.

96 Lichnowsky, Geschichte, vol. 8, dxix, no. 1742e; Dimitz, Geschichte Krains, vol. 1, 328; A Frangepán család oklevéltára, vol. 1, 385 no. 370, vol. 2, 1. no. 1.

97 Kozina, Die Landeshauptleute, 16; Heinig, Kaiser Friedrich III., vol. 1, 234.

98 A Frangepán család oklevéltára, vol. 1, 349, no. 342; Lichnowsky, Geschichte, vol. 8, dxvii, no. 1261d.

99 E.g. in 1437, a ten-year agreement was made between Counts Stephen, Bartholomew, Martin, Sigismund, Andrew and Ivan Frankopan, and the two Habsburg dukes, Frederick V (later called as Frederick III, the Holy Roman emperor) and his brother Albert VI. The contracting parties stated that if the dukes’ estates in Inner Austria were to come under attack, the Frankopan family would rush to their aid with a thousand heavy cavalry hired at their own expense. Furthermore, the agreement specified that the cavalry would not go to war against Sigismund, Holy Roman emperor (1433–1437), Frederick IV, duke of Austria and count of Tyrol (1409–1439), or Albert V, archduke of Austria (1404–1439, king of Hungary between 1438 and 1439). A Frangepán család oklevéltára, vol. 1, 291, no. 295, Chmel, Materialien, vol. 1, part 2, 46, no. 27.

100 For a detailed list of the information concerning the people mentioned, see Péterfi, “Adalékok,” 165.

101 A horvát véghelyek, 9, no. 13 as well as MNL OL DF 276656.

102 ÖStA AVA RAA Karton 120, no. 7. See de Vajay, “Un ambassadeur,” 556, n. 26.

103 Dimitz, Geschichte Krains, vol. 2, 9–10, 12, 14; Györkös, “Aventurier sans scrupule”; Györkös, “Magyar hadvezér”; Wiesflecker, Kaiser Maximilian, vol. 4, 140.

104 A Frangepán család oklevéltára, vol. 2, 359–61, no. 324, 369–70, no. 333.

105 See Fógel, II. Lajos, 56; Fraknói, “II. Lajos király”; A Frangepán család oklevéltára, vol. 2, 378, no. 348.

106 A horvát véghelyek, passim; Rothenberg, The Austrian Military Border.

107 A Frangepán család oklevéltára, vol. 2, xlv.

108 Péterfi, “Johann Kanizsai.”

109 See Lamberg, Rosen Garten; Heiß, “Königin Maria,” 419–48; Kerkhoff, Maria van Hongarije, 91–96; Réthelyi, “Mary of Hungary,” 70–130.

110 “magnificus noster [Maximiliani imperatoris – B. P.] et Sacri Imperii fidelis syncere dilectus N. baro de N., consiliarius noster et serenissimi principis domini Ludovici […] regis […] curie magister,” s. d. [between 1516 and 1519], OSZKK Fol. Lat. 1656, fol. 88r–v no. 198. The unknown person must have been Mózes Buzlai or János Pető or Péter Korlátkői serving as masters of the (royal) court at the same time (C. Tóth et al., Magyarország, vol. 1, 109–10). Korlátkői seems to be more likely than the others, since he was awarded the baronial title of Berencs (Podbranč, today in Slovakia) in 1515. Neumann, A Korlátköviek, 57–58. I am grateful to Tibor Neumann for drawing my attention to this detail of the argument.

111 ÖStA HHStA RK RRB Bd. BB, fol. 273v, 280v–81r.

112 ÖStA HHStA RK RRB Bd. Z, fol. 42r.

113 Fógel, II. Ulászló, 66; Fógel, II. Lajos, 53 n. 4.

114 ÖStA HHStA FA Erdődy D 1242a, fol. 1r–2v, D 10285; MNL OL E 239, vol. 14, p. 211–13 (original: ÖStA AVA FHKA AHK Gedenkbücher, Österreichische Reihe 19, fol. 128r–v), p. 216–19 (original: ÖStA AVA FHKA AHK Gedenkbücher, Österreichische Reihe 19, fol. 292v–93r), p. 219–21 (original: ÖStA AVA FHKA AHK Gedenkbücher, Österreichische Reihe 19, fol. 293r–v).

115 Bubryák, “Kaiserkreuz,” 42.

2021_3_Lazarevic

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Foreign Investments and Socialist Enterprise in Slovenia (Yugoslavia): The Case of the Kolektor Company

Zarko Lazarevic
Institute of Contemporary History, Ljubljana / University of Primorska, Koper
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Hungarian Historical Review Volume 10 Issue 3  (2021):556-580 DOI 10.38145/2021.3.556

In this article, I examine foreign investment in the socialist enterprise in the former Yugoslavia based on the case study of Kolektor in the context of the liberalized communist social and economic order. Foreign investments were allowed in the form of joint ventures. I present these investments from the viewpoint of economic reforms, the concept of socialist enterprise, and the concept of economic development, which enabled foreign investments and shaped regulation and the structure of foreign investments in Yugoslavia. The history of the case of Kolektor began at a time when Slovenia still belonged to the former Yugoslavia, which was arguably a liberalized type of communist economic system. This was during the Cold War, when both Europe and the rest of the world were divided essentially along the lines of the communist east and the capitalist west. The Kolektor Company was established in 1963 as a state socialist enterprise for the manufacture of the rotary electrical switches known as commutators. From the outset, the company tried to establish international cooperation to acquire modern technology. In 1968, it reached an agreement with the West German Company Kautt & Bux, which at the time was the technological and market leader in the production of commutators. Kautt & Bux invested in Kolektor and became an owner of 49 percent of the company. The investment proved very profitable for both partners. The Slovenian side got access to modern technology and expertise, and the German side got additional production facilities, skilled workers, and low-cost production, which increased its competitiveness on international markets.

Keywords: Yugoslavia, Slovenia, communism, commutator economic reforms, socialist enterprise, joint ventures

Introduction

In this article, I examine foreign investments in Yugoslav companies during the communist period. Yugoslavia was among the first communist countries to allow foreign investments in the form of joint ventures in 1967. Later, it was followed by other communist countries. Yugoslavia attracted a larger volume of foreign investments than all other communist countries put together. It differed from the other Eastern Bloc countries because its economic and political system was decentralized, the state was better integrated into the global economy, its foreign economic relations were liberalized, and individual companies were responsible for their own success. This paved the way for foreign investments once they were allowed. The system of self-management was introduced with reforms in the early 1950s. It prospered thanks to a significant level of decentralized decision-making at the political and economic level. In the middle of the 1960s, it was decided that foreign investments in Yugoslav companies should be allowed, together with the integration into the international division of labor. The decision was strategic and pragmatic. In close cooperation with foreign partners, domestic companies would get access to modern technologies and management know-how, and they thus would be better able to penetrate Western markets. Also, foreign investments were cheaper than the importation of foreign capital through state borrowing. After that, the idea of attempting to attract foreign investment persisted in the Yugoslav territory until the dissolution of the state in 1991. Over the course of a period of twenty years, regulations would keep changing, becoming increasingly favorable to foreign investment, depending on the political circumstances.

The article is divided into six shorter sections. The first section summarizes the economic reforms and development periods during the existence of communist Yugoslavia. The second section analyses the distinctive characteristics of Yugoslav companies, which must be taken into consideration if one seeks to understand the positions of foreign investors. The third section traces the institutionalization of foreign investments. The fourth focuses on the regulation of foreign investments with emphasis on the essential aspects of regulation and changes over time. The fifth section examines the scope of foreign investments in view of the sectoral structure, regional distribution, and origins of foreign investors. A detailed case study of foreign investment follows in the sixth section, specifically the Western German Kautt & Bux company’s joint venture with Kolektor from Slovenia. The case study illustrates the pattern of investment in a Yugoslav company and of cohabitation between a foreign partner and a self-management company. This company’s experiences, however, were not typical of the practice of foreign investment into Yugoslav companies. Its long-term success makes it an exception, as most of the joint ventures were of a comparatively short duration and were of limited expansion and innovation. Kolektor, rather, offers a good example of what the Yugoslav authorities envisioned and hoped for when they decided to allow foreign investors to partner with domestic enterprises.

Economic Models

Economic development in Yugoslavia can be divided into four periods, each of which saw the emergence of a distinctive economic model. The first one lasted from 1947 to 1951. This period saw the rise of a centrally planned economy. In other words, it was the period in which administrative planning was implemented according to the Soviet example. The top priority was to develop heavy industry even if it meant neglecting other sectors, including sectors which had a direct impact on people’s living standards. In the second period, central administrative planning was abolished (1952–1965). The plan became a mere orientation concerning how the economy was supposed to develop. Furthermore, it became polycentric, as the individual republics attained the right to specify the priorities when it came to their economic development. In the context of the goals specified in such a manner, the companies would supposedly pursue their interests. Partial competition among companies was enabled. Companies were allowed to establish horizontal connections, i.e., communicate among themselves according to their business interests. Thus, hierarchic communication with the ministries in the framework of the centrally planned company activities was abolished. With reforms, decision-making was divided between the political and economic level. Companies became responsible for their own success, and their leaderships could make business decisions autonomously. The new economic model emphasized the development of the consumer goods industry and intensive rather than extensive development, i.e., productivity growth, business efficiency, and the liberalization of international trade. The third period (1965–1975) was called the period of “market socialism.” It saw the use of so-called indicative planning. Companies set their own business objectives in line with the national economic development plan. The focus of economic policy was on boosting consumer spending and income growth. The strengthening of the secondary and tertiary sectors, the integration of Yugoslavia into the international economic space, and the international division of labor were also emphasized. The intention was to strengthen the functioning of the market and the productivity and efficiency of the economy, to increase the level of general education, and to enhance the role of business research and development, either independently of or in connection with the academic sphere. The fourth and last period (1976–1991) was characterized by the consolidation of “workers’ self-management.” A turning point came when the society and the economy were reorganized according to the principles of the so-called “contractual economy,” which was supposed to strengthen the influence of workers (through self-management) in the management of economic entities. From the strategic point of view, the country changed its model and focused on the promotion of basic industries, energy, and raw materials. Attention was also paid to export growth, the reduction of the deficit in the balance of payments, efficient energy use, higher productivity, and closing the regional and economic gaps. The general decentralization of decision-making altered the nature of social planning. The planned goals became a synthesis of the planning by different actors, including companies, associations, and public authorities. Due to measures which were taken to further decentralization, which in turn diminished the power of the state authorities (especially the federal ones), the role of the renamed Communist Party became very important. With its cells in all of the social and economic units, the Communist Party, the League of Communists of Yugoslavia (LCY), became an informal integrating element of a fragmented society and economy.1

Yugoslav Companies

Foreign investments were also determined by the structure and concept of socialist enterprises in Yugoslavia, where there was a system of ownership that was unique in the Socialist Bloc. With the abandonment of the centrally planned economy and the introduction of “workers’ self-management,” the concept of state ownership and hierarchical management of socialist enterprises was abolished as well. In the context of the reforms, companies were becoming responsible for their own success. They were able to establish connections and engage in cooperative business endeavors according to their own interests and the demands of their activities. The transfer of responsibilities to companies took place in the context of the general decentralization of the state. At the same time, the transfer to lower units also meant a change in the ownership concept. The concept of state ownership was replaced by that of “social ownership.” According to this concept, the company was the property of society, i.e., of the entire population. Meanwhile, the workers were intended to run the company. The concept of social property was linked to the concept of “workers’ self-management.” This meant that company employees had the right to manage the company, determine its activities, production volumes, sales prices, marketing strategies, investments, and the use of profits.2

In Yugoslavia, a company could be set up by a municipality, a republic, the federation, another company, a bank, or even a group of citizens. New companies could also be created by merging or splitting up existing enterprises. The founder was obliged to provide the necessary capital. Companies were autonomous in determining their business policies. The power in the company hinged on the working community. With their employment in the company, all workers acquired the right to comanage the company. The working community would elect the highest management body in the company: the “workers’ council.” The workers’ council decided on all business strategies and implementation orientations. It also appointed the company’s management, board of directors, and the director. Board members were accountable to the workers’ council. The director was appointed by the workers’ council. The decision was formally based on the council’s public call for candidates, but the local party leadership initially made the choice. The period of tenure was four years, and there were no limitations on the number of terms. The director managed and administered the company on behalf of and by the authority of the workers’ council. In his work, he had to pursue the interests of the “working community,” to which he was ultimately accountable. The director had the right and obligation to participate in the workers’ council meetings, but he or she was not supposed to play a decisive role. The question of the realistic distribution of power, responsibility, and authority in Yugoslav companies was crucial for foreign investment decisions. Individual directors would successfully lead companies through the strength of their personalities and persuasive abilities. However, the real power of the workers’ councils also had to be taken into account.3

The notion of workers’ self-management was not merely a matter of abstract conceptual thinking or disingenuous rhetoric. It had to be taken seriously in case of every intention of foreign investment, and the investments had to be negotiated with the company itself or with its management. On the other hand, Yugoslav companies were obliged to secure the consent of the authorities and political bodies. Another important issue also arises in connection with the roles of political bodies: that of political intervention in companies. Foreign investors needed to consider this possibility as well. As the reforms weakened the influence of the central authorities in companies, the influence of the party authorities within the given republic and district survived. The LCY had cells in every social organization, including companies. The political line would thus control the company and supervise the decision-making mechanisms and company management. As party members, the directors had a twofold responsibility. On the one hand, they were accountable to the employees, i.e., to the “workers’ council,” but they were also accountable (as noted above) to the local party leadership.4 In practice, this meant that there were formal and informal levels of decision-making which were sometimes complementary and sometimes conflicting. Meanwhile, the LCY had a monopoly on personnel policy. Decentralization also implied a transfer of social power. Corporate self-responsibility also meant that the social power of company managements grew in strength. The control exerted through the local Communist Party authorities at the company and municipal level was intended precisely to regulate this power. This was necessary to ensure that companies would pursue the overall social objectives rather than just their own aims. However, in this manner, the companies’ “self-management” and self-responsibility for their own economic success was systemically denied. Company leaderships would struggle to balance their political and economic performances, with the former often taking precedence. This dilemma was identified at the time by domestic critics, who also questioned the concept of market socialism.5

The Decision to Accept and Encourage Foreign Investment

Yugoslavia was the first socialist country to allow foreign investment in its economy. Hungary, Poland, Romania, and Bulgaria followed later.6 Due to the nature of the system, the investments could only take the form of joint ventures. The 1960s were an important period in the economic history of Yugoslavia (and Slovenia). They bore witness to a significant attempt to change the economic and social landscape. Economic reforms were implemented to make the economy more efficient, increase business incomes, and make the economy more competitive in foreign markets. Naturally, everything was done within the framework of the communist ideology, which meant that change was desirable, but only to the point where it did not threaten the existing fundamental postulates of the communist political, social, and economic order. Thus, in the process of phasing out the centrally planned model, the state started to shift some of the responsibility for economic success to businesses and local communities. It only allowed the market to function, but only within limits set by the state, and it refused to give up the mechanisms with which it controlled the economy. The state also promoted the integration of companies into the international environment. In principle, it supported integration into the international trade flows and the international division of labor. The internal and external trade regimes were gradually liberalized, and some measures were even taken to attract foreign capital.7

Foreign investment was one of the major development issues in this process. At the time, after the country’s accession to the General Agreement on Trade and Tariffs (GATT), following the adoption of the Great Economic Reform (1965), the Yugoslav authorities wanted to integrate the country into the international division of labor. The 1965 reform was one of the most comprehensive and profound of the Yugoslav economic reforms. After these reforms were adopted, the concept of market socialism was consolidated. At the time, it was clear that integration into the international division of labor also meant opening up the country to foreign investment. For a short time, a view prevailed according to which it was socially cheaper to allow foreign capital to enter domestic companies than to build economic development solely on foreign loans.8 However, the price of capital was not the only factor. The expectation was that domestic companies would thereby gain swifter access to modern technologies and, by leaning on foreign partners, enter foreign markets.9 It was also expected that the “workers’ self-management” would become stronger, the general economy and individual enterprises would become more efficient and profitable, and the pace of industrialization would accelerate. Furthermore, the balance of payments was also supposed to improve, as foreign investment would boost exports of higher-value products and help the country address its capital shortage. The issue of unemployment was pressing. The decision was adopted in a context of very high levels of recognized unemployment and increasing economic emigration to Western European countries. It was hoped that foreign investments would allow the country to create jobs more quickly.10

Regulation of Foreign Investments

Foreign investment was regulated by specific legislation which was adopted in various stages. At the initial stage, acts which paved the way for joint ventures were adopted. In the subsequent stages, more detailed regulation of the relationships followed. The process started in 1967, when an act was adopted to tax the profits of foreign companies that invested in Yugoslav companies. A second act limited the foreign investor’s share. The domestic company had to hold the majority in the joint venture (at least 51 percent). Foreign investment was not allowed in banking, the insurance industry, domestic transport, trade, and public utility services. The domestic and foreign partner had to conclude a joint venture agreement, define the purpose of the agreement, and determine the mutual relations in terms of capital, management, cooperation, operations in domestic and foreign markets, and, of course, the division of profits.11 The domestic company had to obtain the informal consent of the republic’s authorities even to enter the initial negotiations. After the conclusion of the agreement, it had to be sent for approval and entry in a special register of such companies at the Federal Ministry of Economy in Belgrade. The foreign partner was guaranteed certain rights under the law: the right to retain ownership of its capital contribution and to sell it, the right to a proportionate share of the profits, the right to comanage the company, and the right to access all documentation. It was also very important that the foreign partner had the right to repatriate the majority of its share of the profits. In summary, foreign investors were allowed to manage the company and participate in it based on ownership (investment). Rights went hand in hand with duties. Thus, the foreign partner had to reinvest at least one fifth (20 percent) of the profits in the domestic company or invest them in a Yugoslav bank at the usual interest rate. The foreign partner also had to pay the required taxes: a profit tax of 35 percent, which was supposed to be a more favorable tax rate than in Western European countries, where most of the potential interest in investing in Yugoslav companies was expected to be found.12

The 1970s were a decade of contradictions. In 1971, although the requirement to reinvest part of profits was abolished, the foreign investor could repatriate only one-third of the income earned by exports after having paid the relevant taxes. The individual republics were allowed to set their own tax rates on foreign investments. In 1973, long-term investments and the joint and several liability of Yugoslav companies in joint ventures with foreign investors were regulated in more discouraging detail. In June 1976, conditions for foreign investments were tightened. Only foreign investment aimed at exports for foreign markets would be approved. Contracts needed to be more precise. The volume of exports and the currencies had to be specified for foreign investors to receive their profits. The rights of joint management bodies were also limited in the sense that they were not allowed to interfere with the “self-managing” structure of companies. The responsibility to determine business policy was transferred to work councils. This limited the foreign investor’s right to manage the company. These repeated changes limited growth in foreign investment.

The legislative changes of April 1978 were again more favorable to foreign investment, as special protections were granted to foreign investors. This time, the legislature put foreign investors on an equal footing with domestic companies in terms of the right to manage. The rights of the company’s joint management board were laid out in detail. In addition, foreign investment in banking was allowed, which was to be regulated by a special act. Foreign investment in the insurance industry, trade, and public utility services remained prohibited. A provision that allowed foreign investors to repatriate half of their export profits was important for them. The next step was taken in 1984, when ownership restrictions were lifted. Foreign investors could now also become majority owners. The last change dates to 1988, when a new foreign investment act completely freed up foreign investment. Prohibitions in the military industry, rail and air transport, telecommunications, the insurance industry, and media remained in place. The act put foreign investors on an equal footing with domestic companies in terms of tax reliefs and government incentives. The foreign investor acquired all management rights and the right to transfer all profits, and collective agreements would be concluded with the employees.13

Foreign Investments in Yugoslavia

The Yugoslav joint ventures policy attracted the attention of the international business, academic, and political public. The number of articles and expert analyses on the subject was considerable. This had an impact on the flow of capital into Yugoslavia. Yugoslavia succeeded in attracting investments from the most technologically and economically advanced countries. The data from 1980, compiled by the OECD, indicate that the volume of foreign investment was gradually increasing.14 Among the industrial sectors, metalworking, the chemical industry, and transport equipment manufacturing attracted the most investment. Despite the constantly changing regulatory measures concerning joint ventures, the political-ideological prejudices in the country, and the actual constraints of the political and economic system, the volume of foreign investment should be deemed only a limited success, since its total value remained a small share of capital in all sectors except metal production (see Table 1). The interest from foreign private Western companies was still considerable, especially those that had already established cooperation with Yugoslav companies. The Western companies’ motives for investing in Yugoslav companies varied and, above all, included the low price of labor and the tax advantages, which allowed for the acquisition of the Yugoslav market, sales through Yugoslav companies to other communist countries, and competitive exports to Western markets due to the low price of labor. As a rule, investments would be proposed by Yugoslav companies.15 The main motivation of foreign companies was, therefore, further growth, profitability, and export opportunities to third markets. Foreign companies that strived to understand the Yugoslav ideological-political reality were successful at investing. A survey of a sample of Western companies in Yugoslavia showed that investments in Yugoslav companies met their expectations. Foreign companies would follow several investment goals. The relatively lower return on investment was compensated for by the increase in exports to other communist countries and the conquest of the Yugoslav market.16

While foreign investors were evenly distributed, most came from countries that were also Yugoslavia’s largest foreign trade partners. The main players were companies from the contemporaneous European Economic Community. Unsurprisingly, Germany and Italy were in the first place (see Table 2). They were followed closely by companies from the United States of America, though only in terms of the number of contracts concluded. However, the United States was the top investor by far in terms of capital invested due to their heavy investment in the oil refining industry.

 

Table 2. Origin of foreign investors in Yugoslav enterprises, 1968–1980

Countries of origin

Number of contracts

Foreign capital invested (millions of dinars)

Share of total foreign capital

USA

30

3,368.0

32.8 %

UK

12

1,777.8

17.3 %

Switzerland

19

1,637.1

16.0 %

West Germany

52

1,123.0

11.0 %

Italy

31

937.6

9.1 %

France

11

290.0

2.8 %

Austria

7

254.1

2.5 %

Sweden

6

223.3

2.2 %

Luxembourg

4

126.0

1.2 %

Belgium

6

124.4

1.2 %

Netherlands

3

75.6

0.7 %

Others

17

402.2

3.2 %

 

Source: Artisien and Buckley, “Joint Ventures in Yugoslavia,” 115.

While foreign investments in Yugoslav companies were territorially dispersed throughout the country, they were also regionally concentrated. The idea of the Yugoslav economic development planning that foreign investment would contribute to the more rapid development of the underdeveloped republics was not realized. Most joint ventures were secured by companies from the developed regions of Slovenia, Croatia, and Serbia (see Table 3). As the legislation allowed it, a kind of “competition” emerged to attract joint ventures. The underdeveloped republics offered lower tax rates to attract a higher share of foreign investments. Montenegro, Vojvodina, and Kosovo set a tax rate of 10 percent. The Kosovo authorities offered an even more reduced rate of only 5 percent for investments in Kosovo’s underdeveloped municipalities. Serbia and Macedonia set tax rates of 15 percent and 14 percent, respectively. In Serbia, any foreign investor could benefit from a half tax rate if they invested in economically less developed areas. Slovenia and Bosnia and Herzegovina set their tax rates at 20 percent. Croatia taxed foreign investors more, at 35 percent. However, it also recognized reduced rates, for example, in the case of investments in tourism activities, the rate was only 5 percent for the first five years and 20 percent thereafter.17 However, through tax policy alone, the underdeveloped republics could not make up for the advantages of the developed republics, which offered a better educated and experienced workforce, better infrastructure, more efficient companies, and better integration into the international economic space.

 

Table 3. Regional distribution of foreign investments in Yugoslavia 1968–1980

Location

Number of joint ventures

In millions of dinars

Share

Serbia proper

41

2,589

30.9 %

Croatia

34

2,585

30.9 %

Bosnia-Hercegovina

29

1,186

14.2 %

Slovenia

43

1,026

12.4 %

Vojvodina

9

470

5.6 %

Macedonia

6

184

2.2 %

Kosovo

3

180

2.2 %

Montenegro

2

134

1.6 %

 

Source: Prinčič, “Tuja naložbe,” 116.

In the individual republics, special bodies were established to attract foreign investments. In Slovenia, these bodies were a part of the Chamber of Commerce and the state administration. The Chamber of Commerce established a Foreign Capital Investment Commission to provide legal and economic information to domestic and foreign companies and to assist them in making foreign investments. The same role was performed by the Work Group on Foreign Investments of the Ministry of Economic Cooperation with Foreign Countries of the Socialist Republic of Slovenia.18 At the international level, a special organization called the International Investment Corporation for Yugoslavia (IICY) was established to provide support for interested foreign companies. The project idea was developed in the Yugoslav banking circles to facilitate and purposely promote foreign investments in Yugoslav companies. In November 1968, a group of Yugoslav bankers, in cooperation with the International Finance Corporation of the World Bank Group (IFC), initiated consultations about the new institution. The response among Western bankers was sufficient for a decision to set up an institution aimed at providing assistance for private enterprises regarding their cooperation with Yugoslav companies. It would help them find business partners and raise the necessary capital in the form of loans or venture capital. The primary objective was to bring modern production techniques and management know-how to Yugoslavia. The IICY became operational in December 1969. It was based in London, Europe’s largest financial center, but registered in Luxembourg for tax reasons. The founding capital in the amount of 12 million US dollars was contributed by 12 Yugoslav and 39 foreign banks, with the assistance of the International Finance Corporation. The founding banks described the new institution as a “pioneering type of investment company, through which private business will invest in joint industrial, agricultural and tourism and other services ventures in Yugoslavia.” The largest shareholders included Yugoslav banks and banks from Austria, Germany, Switzerland, France, Italy, and the Netherlands, i.e., from the countries with which Yugoslavia had already developed economic cooperation. However, financial institutions from the USA, UK, Sweden, Japan, and Kuwait were among the shareholders as well. In the early years, the IICY played an important role in attracting foreign capital to Yugoslavia. By 1973, it had participated in 22 percent of the total investments and provided capital support for these investments. It also invested in its own name, partly in the form of loans and partly in the form of risk capital. Its representatives ensured that investments were balanced regionally and by sector. As the Yugoslav banks and their international activities expanded, the IICY’s importance gradually diminished, as had been expected would happen when it was founded.19

 

 

“We Worked in Socialism, but We Need to Act and Think as if We Were in Capitalism.”20 The Case of the Joint Venture between Kolektor and Kaut & Bux

The Kolektor Company was established in 1963 as a state socialist enterprise for the production of commutators. From the outset, they tried to establish international cooperation in order to acquire modern technology. In 1968, when for the first time the joint ventures were allowed, Kolektor made an agreement with the West German Company Kautt & Bux, which at the time was the technological and market leader in the production of commutators. Kautt & Bux invested in Kolektor and became the owner of 49 percent of the company. The investment proved very profitable, as both partners benefited. The Slovene side got access to modern technology and expertise, and the German side got additional production facilities, skilled workers, and low-cost production, which increased its competitiveness on international markets. The German side also got the exclusive right to handle marketing. Kolektor was only allowed to sell products under its own brand in the communist part of Europe. The investments in development and technology were always very high, and both partners were obliged to make them. As a foreign partner, Kautt & Bux had to invest at least 20 percent of its profit in order to be allowed to export the rest of its profits. Both partners also made a commitment to decide jointly on reinvesting the profits and on additional investment above the legally set limit of 20 percent. Kautt & Bux regularly reinvested the generated profits. The repatriation of profits represented a mere 2 percent of the profit per year.

The main threat to cooperation with foreign partners was the system of management of Slovenian and Yugoslav enterprises. It was based on the ideology of socialist self-management, according to which all decisions on business processes were to be entrusted to the “workers council.” In Kolektor, they had to deal with this obligation on a daily basis. The company tried to be flexible. On the one hand, they insisted on contractual provisions, but on the other, they strove for balance with the Yugoslav provisions on self-management. Fortunately, Kautt & Bux was equally pragmatic. Two parallel “mind” structures were thus pragmatically established in Kolektor. They differed completely in their origin, backgrounds, and purposes. The “communist” and “capitalist” structures and methods of management intertwined in the company’s operations. The latter structure eventually prevailed. Jožica Velikajne, a long-standing associate of the company, described the split personality of the company: “Half of the time, we lived in socialism and the other half in capitalism.” But a pragmatic solution was found which was respected by both sides and which enabled long-lasting cooperation. With the entering of German investors, Kolektor began to undergo a process of deep economic, social, and cultural changes. Kolektor was partly excluded from the local environment. Kolektor’s management structure was different. It was led by two codirectors, one from Germany and one from Slovenia. Decisions could be made only with the agreement of both sides. Kolektor as a company was faced with an urgent need to adapt to western, namely German business standards and habits, well also dealing with the characteristics of the local communist environment.

Kautt & Bux assured itself control over management of the company and thus protected its interests, but this indirectly brought it into a “systemically built-in” conflict with the self-management system. This is why it was also ready to give certain concessions to the Slovene factory. In one of the provisions, Kolektor received an assurance that Kautt & Bux would guarantee each year a minimum volume of sales of Kolektor commutators on foreign markets. This was a great achievement for the factory, as it made a much-desired expansion possible. They could thus use the revenues from exports to finance the modernization and expansion of production capacities and the import of special tools and indispensable semi-finished parts. Both partners also made a commitment to decide jointly on reinvesting the profits and on additional investment above the legally set limit of 20 percent.

In line with the existing legislation, the contract laid down that the company would be managed by a joint management committee with a full mandate to run the company. Yet the self-management organization of the company had to remain intact. But once again, Kautt & Bux got a concession here. At its request, a provision was added to the contract according to which “the supreme self-management body,” i.e., the “workers’ council,” had to respect all contractual provisions and all decisions taken by the joint management committee. In this manner, the German partner assured itself in advance of the protection of its interests.

Another part of the process of establishing cooperation between the two companies and entering into a joint venture was a financial check-up of the company, which took place in November 1968. The German partner was interested in the structure and method of Yugoslav bookkeeping and accounting, including its everyday practices and categories. It wanted to check the credibility of the financial statements of the Kolektor company. It sent to Kolektor a group of three accounting and tax experts. Their report confirmed the credibility of the financial statements. They even concluded that the bookkeeping and accounting at Kolektor was very good and precise in every detail. The auditors, however, noted certain terminological differences stemming from the Yugoslav system and accounting standards. They recommended standardizing the terms or specifying clearer definitions of individual terms so that their meanings would not be lost in translation. They were extremely satisfied with the financial control exerted by the authorized state services, in particular the audit service of the central bank. They even found a good feature in the management structure of Yugoslav enterprises. They believed that the controlling authority of workers’ councils was a good solution, as such internal control largely prevented the possibility of personal profiteering. They eventually reminded the accounting service of the obligation to send quarterly financial statements to Stuttgart. Thus, the accounting service was subject to additional control. But it was very important that the representatives of Kautt & Bux trusted the accounting service and did not question the credibility of its reports.

Kolektor was one of the first cases of an investment by a Western European partner in a self-managed socialist company in Slovenia and even in Yugoslavia. There were, understandably, many ideological suspicions and idle fears, which were also reflected within the company. Any close connection with a foreign partner was met with great mistrust and concealed opposition, as is evident from the minutes of the meetings of the workers’ council. At its session of July 9, 1968, the council had on the agenda the approval of the contract with Kautt & Bux. After the director read the contract and provided an extensive interpretation of individual provisions, all the hidden fears, distrust, objections, and reservations came to the surface. He was also assisted by the president of the municipality, whose presence at the meeting gave the agreement wider political support and the backing of the local political environment. It was the president who stressed several times that the contract was not the type of contract which allowed the exploitation of workers, and thus he rejected in advance the suspicions that could be felt from the tone of the speakers. The fear stemmed largely from the difference in the levels of wages in Germany and Slovenia and the reservations regarding the real prices of supplied raw materials and semi-finished goods. In modern terms, this meant that some of them saw in the envisioned partnership the danger of the effect of transfer pricing which Kautt & Bux could turn to its advantage in terms of its profit levels. The other reservations concerned technology. Some members were quite impatient and objected to the gradual nature of the transfer of production. According to the plans at the time, they were first to produce commutators which required only minor adjustments to production and only later to switch to the production of more demanding types. After a lengthy discussion, they nevertheless reached a decision that Kolektor should sign the contract.

According to the contract, the Kolektor would invest all its available assets, and the foreign partner would invest cash, machinery, tools, the necessary know-how, experience, and goodwill. The investment ratio between the partners was at the upper limit what was allowed: Kautt & Bux could only obtain a 49 percent equity stake. Although the German partners wanted a majority stake, they had to accept this as the only possible option. But they insisted on a provision stating that, were Yugoslavia to adopt new legislation concerning foreign investment, Kolektor would agree to each of the two parties holding a 50 percent stake. The foreign partner also required additional assurances of the safety of its investment. They therefore negotiated the right to cosign any contract. Each contract had to be cosigned by a representative of Kautt & Bux’s management. The term “codirector” was used in the contract. When responding to the ideological accusations regarding this delicate issue of a “codirector,” Kolektor successfully explained to the authorities that the term itself was merely a “terminological concession.” They explicitly assured that it would not have any consequences for the management of the company, as all other management structures typical of a socially self-managed company would remain in place. These explanations notwithstanding, this provision constituted a significant change in the structures and methods of company management and business.

Both partners were pragmatic enough that the cooperative undertaking proved very successful. In the period beginning with the conclusion of the contract and ending in the early 1980s, production and exports grew at an average annual rate of 12 percent. By the mid-1970s, the volume of production surged around eightfold, and around half of all commutators produced were sold to foreign markets through Kautt & Bux. The share of production for the foreign partner was slowly rising, and Kautt & Bux constantly exceeded the purchase value of commutators set out in the contract. Kolektor became a supplier to numerous European companies, including Philips, Bosch, AEG, Siemens, Vorwerk, and Perles. Moreover, thanks to the new technology, the door to the Yugoslav market was also opened wide. Kolektor had an 85 percent market share of the domestic market.

Kolektor increased its production, technology, and market share rapidly. It also constantly invested in research and development, and it enjoyed successes with a few patents which enabled it to lower production costs substantially. Kolektor also improved the educational qualifications of its employees. At the end of 1980, Kolektor has already surpassed Kautt & Bux by volume of production and overall operation, market share, and profitability. Kolektor went from being a recipient of knowledge to an innovator, a company which generated its own knowledge and started to base its further growth on this knowledge.

Then, in 1988, the first agreement, which had been signed 20 years earlier, came to an end. After initial disagreement, a new contract was finally signed which was very similar to the first agreement from 1968. But there was one important difference. Kolektor would be allowed to sell in markets where its German partner did not have its own company for the production or sale of commutators or its own sales agents. Thus, a small window opened for Kolektor for independent marketing with its own brand.

The 1990s were the challenging years for Kolektor and Kautt & Bux. The transition period in Slovenia and the business troubles faced by Kautt & Bux created a new context. During the post-1989 transition, it was finally possible to transform the Kautt & Bux share in Kolektor into a pure capital investment. Kautt & Bux achieved a majority share, 51 percent, with the lease of the production line to Kolektor. It was stipulated that Kautt & Bux’s majority share should be reduced after Kolektor had paid off the production line. Kolektor did that in two years, so the share of Kautt & Bux decreased to 50.01 percent. Kautt & Bux at that time still held the exclusive sales and marketing rights for Kolektor’s products on Western markets. Kautt & Bux regularly used its majority share in Kolektor as collateral in different credit transactions. In the new contract, there was a provision which later became crucial. Kautt & Bux agreed that for any kind of decision, a three-quarters majority of shareholders was required. This was a concession given to Kolektor in order to protect the interests of the Slovenian side.

In the beginning of 1990s, Kautt & Bux was overburdened with debts, lagging behind Kolektor technologically, and losing its competitiveness, and its market share was in decline. In fact, its business performance was completely dependent on the profitability of Kolektor. Kautt & Bux was at the verge of insolvency. Due to the marketing rights which Kautt & Bux held, which meant that it had direct contacts with customers, Kolektor had an interest in helping Kautt & Bux ease its solvency problems. However, in 1994, the efforts to keep Kautt & Bux afloat proved futile. In fear for its future, Kolektor cancelled the agreement with Kautt & Bux, since Kautt & Bux was not in position to ensure the selling channels anymore. Within the customer’s network, Kolektor was already recognized as reliable, innovative, and excellent producer of commutators. Although Kolektor faced initial troubles, it successfully managed to establish direct ties with its customers and build partnerships with them.

Simultaneously with the decline of Kautt & Bux, another process was going on, specifically, the privatization of Kolektor, or to be more precise, the privatization of Kolektor’s 49.99 percent share, which was in state/social ownership. By the time of Kautt & Bux’s bankruptcy, privatization based on the concept of broad employee co-ownership had started. After a very complicated procedure, two newly stablished companies (FI and FMR), owned by 800 employees with a deciding role in management, privatized the Slovenian part of Kolektor.

After Kautt & Bux declared bankruptcy, there was an offer to the Slovenian side to take over the Kautt & Bux share in Kolektor. At the time, however, the Slovenian side simply did not have enough founds for such a takeover. Finally, Kautt & Bux was taken over by Kirkwood Industries, an American commutator manufacturer, in February 1994. In addition to Kautt & Bux’s total assets, Kirkwood also took over slightly more than a 50 percent share in Kolektor. Kirkwood entered the takeover procedure of Kautt & Bux, and Kolektor unprepared. Kirkwood’s management expected to gain total control of the company. However, they were soon faced with reality. They found out about the contractual provision concerning the need for the assent of a three-quarters majority of shareholders for the adoption and enforcement of decisions. The bankruptcy administrator in Germany had obviously withheld this important information from Kirkwood.

In the 1990s, when Kirkwood acquired a share in Kolektor, Kolektor became even stronger and more independent. By using modern technology, it substantially increased its production capacity. The volume of production surged by 47 percent in the second half of the 1990s, from 66 million to 107 million commutators. In the same period, the volume of sales was up by 40 percent. The company started to establish commercial branches and production facilities in different countries (Germany, USA, Brazil, Mexico, South Korea, China, and Bosnia). In the end, Kolektor even bought Kautt & Bux.

From the perspective of the day-to-day realities, the story was not so smooth. The Kirkwood era at Kolektor was marked by huge misunderstandings concerning the future of both companies, since they were also competitors on the most important markets. The Kautt & Bux and Kolektor management were on close and friendly terms. They trusted each other and were partners. In Kolektor’s relations with Kirkwood, there was no sign of that spirit. From the outset, Kirkwood tried to subordinate Kolektor and degrade it into being a plain production plant, without any other function. This was completely unacceptable for the Slovenian side. Kirkwood attempted to acquire additional shares in Kolektor, but it failed, and it also underestimated the mutual loyalty in the local environment. After this failure, Kirkwood lost interest in Kolektor and in the European market. They offered Kolektor’s owner the option to buy out Kirkwood’s share. Slovenian owners agreed. They finished the procedure in 2002. At the same time, Kolektor also purchased the German company Kautt & Bux from Kirkwood and thus completely dominated the European market.21

Conclusion

Yugoslavia was the first communist country to allow foreign investments in the form of joint ventures as early as the second half of the 1960s. The decision was made as part of the broad reform efforts of 1965. This was a period when the reformist wing of the LCY was dominant. The decision to allow foreign investments was part of the effort to modernize technology and management in the Yugoslav economy. The aim was to further Yugoslav integration into the global economy and the international division of labor and also to enable its competitive entry into the Western markets. Allegedly, the advantages for foreign enterprises of investing in Yugoslavia were the relatively lower investment costs due to cheaper labor and favorable tax rates, satisfactory infrastructure, proximity to the Western markets, a relatively extensive domestic market, and the possibility of exports to third markets, especially the Eastern Bloc countries. This was a pragmatic approach to making the domestic economy more efficient. However, the representatives of the reformist wing, even before they were removed from their positions at the beginning of the 1970s, had to take into account the political realities and the prevailing ideological orthodoxy. Therefore, the regulation of foreign investment was a compromise between pragmatism and the ideological constraints of the communist regime. For foreign investors, the security of their investments, shares and management of joint ventures, and repatriation of profits were vital considerations. There were no ideological prejudices regarding the security of investments. This interest was recognized by the authorities, but there were greater concerns about the co-management of companies and the repatriation of profits. As of the mid-1970s, ideological restraints were tentatively weakening, and the regulation of foreign investments was gradually removing the constraints imposed by the self-management political and economic system. In the late 1980s, Yugoslavia fully liberalized foreign investment. However, at that time, the country’s profound economic and political crisis drastically undermined the efforts to encourage foreign investments in the Yugoslav economy through liberalized regulation.

By 1980, Yugoslavia had managed to attract 200 joint ventures, which meant an average of around 15 foreign investments per year. These investments were rarely extensive, which attests to the caution of foreign investors when it came to joint ventures. 200 foreign investments were not much considering the size of the national economy, but they were a lot for a country with a communist system and regulatory restrictions. Research has shown that foreign investors had no problems with the Yugoslav self-managed corporate structure as long as the local or republic party leadership did not interfere. Investors received half of the management rights, even if they had a smaller share of the capital. Thus, both sides needed to seek consensus to make business decisions. A sort of an informal pattern emerged where the Yugoslav side had more say in setting the employee wages, determining the pricing policy on the domestic market, and focusing on integration into the local environment and relations with the local supplier network. Meanwhile, the foreign partner had a decisive say regarding the technology, the product range, the organization and quality of production, marketing, and sales on the Western markets. Together, they made decisions on recruitment, employee training, and marketing on the domestic market and in other communist countries. The experiences of foreign companies were mostly positive. The self-management of the Yugoslav companies was also not an obstacle. The qualities of the leading operational personnel of both partners were more crucial. The concerns of many investors regarding subordination to the workers’ council as the supreme governing body of Yugoslav companies were unfounded. As a survey among foreign investors revealed, the workers’ councils in joint ventures were more of an advisory body, while the decisions were made by the joint management board.22

The volume of foreign investments shows that the expectations of the Communist Party’s reform wing were justified and that foreign investment could be an important driving force for swifter economic development and the state’s integration into the international economic space.23 However, the restrictions put in place by the communist regime were severe. The ideological-political, social, and economic dilemmas related to foreign investments are evident from the case study presented here. The example of the Kolektor company shows that pragmatism was also needed by foreign investors and domestic companies in their daily business practices. The case of Kolektor also shows that foreign investment in a self-managed enterprise could be very successful when long-term objectives were given emphasis and there was minimal political interference, as was often the case in Slovenia.

As we have already pointed out, Kolektor was not a typical example, but the question remains as to how much of its long-term success was made possible by the investments made by its West German partner. The success of a company cannot simply be attributed to one or two factors. The answer lies in several arguments and their mutual interaction in a historical time and space. Each company is a specific, unique story. It takes place in a specific social context in combination with several favorable circumstances.

The presence of the foreign partner was no doubt a very important factor in Kolektor’s success. It put Kolektor in a specific position and prevented any foreign interference. As for internal relations, here the foreign investor had an important controlling function. Dependence on the foreign markets guaranteed by Kautt & Bux and the ensuing steady incomes were advantages that could not be ignored. The need to adhere to the Western economic standards through Kautt & Bux also had a positive impact on the performance standard of the employees and the leading managers. The foreign partner assured a high level of investment. First, the high investment stemmed from the entry of the foreign partner and the requirements of the Yugoslav legislation, but later, they became a necessity guaranteeing technological progress and growth in the market share. Both sides were aware of this. The level of investments in development (knowledge), technology, and production were constantly high. Kolektor’s success was founded on massive cost-competitive production in the constantly expanding electric motors market.

Another important element was the stability of management and teamwork. In the period between 1968 and 1994, there were only two Slovenian directors and one German director. This contributed to the necessary predictability of the management and its approach to the business. Long-term goals had priority over short-term goals. This was respected by the foreign partner. Kolektor was a company which from the outset had a clear strategic orientation and clearly defined, realistic, and measurable goals. The loyalty of employees to the company should also be mentioned. The level of employees’ identification with the company was high for a long time. The company tried to understand the employees and their families and help them meet their needs. This has been a constant feature of the company’s policy of social responsibility, regardless of which decade of Kolektor’s development we are looking at. Social responsibility was a key feature in the concept of Yugoslav enterprise, as other cases clearly show.24

Unlike most of the others joint ventures in Yugoslavia, the collaborative undertaking between Kolektor and Kautt & Bux was successful due to pragmatism of the partners, both the foreign and the domestic, and the pragmatism of local authorities, which was very important. Local party and administrative authorities respected the new reality at Kolektor, which was established after the entry of a foreign partner. Primarily, they were interested in economic performance, since Kolektor became an important employer and contributor to the development of the local community.

Bibliography

Archer, Rory, and Goran Musić. “Approaching the socialist factory and its workforce: consideration from fieldwork in (former) Yugoslavia.” Labor History 58, no.1 (2017): 44–66. doi: 10.1080/0023656X.2017.1244331

Artisien, Patrick F. R. Joint Ventures in Yugoslav Industry. Aldershot: Gower, 1985.

Artisien, Patrick F. R., and Peter J. Buckley. “Joint Ventures in Yugoslavia: Opportunities and Constraints.” Journal of International Business Studies 16, no. 1 (1985): 111–35. doi: 10.1057/palgrave.jibs.8490445

Bićanić, Rudolf. Economic Policy in Socialist Yugoslavia. Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 1973.

Bozescu, Petru. “Joint-Ventures in Eastern Europe.” The American Journal of Comparative Law 32, no. 3 (1984): 407–47. doi: 10.2307/840423

Bučar, France. Podjetje in družba [Enterprise and society]. Kranj: Moderna organizacija, 1972.

Chittle C. R. “Direct Foreign Investment in a Socialist Labor-Managed Economy: The Yugoslav Experience.” Weltwirtschaftliches Archiv 111, no. 4 (1975): 770–84.

Conner, James. “Joint Ventures in Yugoslavia.” The international Lawyer 10, no. 1 (1976): 45–53.

Conner, James. “Yugoslavia: Laws on Joint Ventures and the Transfer of Technology.” International Legal Materials 18, no. 1 (1979): 229–71.

Dyker, David, Yugoslavia – Socialism, Development and Debt. London: Routledge, 1990.

Flakierski, Henryk. The Economic System & Income Distribution in Yugoslavia. London: M.E. Sharpe Publisher, 1989.

Gnjatović, Dragana. Uloga inostranih sredstava u privrednom razvoju Jugoslavije [The role of foreign loans in economic development of Yugoslavia]. Belgrade: Ekonomski institut, 1985.

Investiranje stranog kapitala u jugoslovenska i talijanska poduzeća [Foreign investment in Yugoslavia and Italian enterprises]. Rijeka: Ekonomski fakultet Rijeka, 1970.

Lamers, E.A.A.M. Joint Ventures Between Yugoslav and Foreign Enterprises. Tilburg: Tilburg University Press, 1976.

Lazarević, Žarko. Kolektor: 50 years 1963–2013. Idrija: Kolektor, 2013.

Milutinovich, Jugoslav, Glen Boseman, and Danica Vrbanovich. “Investment in Yugoslavia: Western Opportunities and Difficulties.” Management International Review 15, no. 1 (1975): 51–60.

Patton, Donald, and Do Anh-Dung. “Joint Ventures in Yugoslavia.” Management International Review 18, no. 4 (1987): 51–63.

Prinčič, Jože. “Direktorski položaj v pogojih socialističnega gospodarstva 1945–1990” [Being director in socialist economy 1945–1990]. Prispevki za novejšo zgodovino 47, no. 1 (2007): 185–97.

Prinčič, Jože. “Tuje naložbe v slovenskem gospodarstvu v času druge Jugoslavije (1945–1991)” [Foreign investment in Slovene economy in Yugoslavia 1945–1991]. Prispevki za novejšo zgodovino 42, no. 1 (2002): 109–20.

Prinčič, Jože. V začaranem krogu [In bewitched circle]. Ljubljana: Cankarjeva založba, 1999.

Ramnath, Narayanswamy. “Yugoslavia: Self-Management or Mismanagement?” Economic and Political Weekly 23, no. 40 (1988): 2052–54.

Sukijanović, Miodrag, and Djura Vujačić. Industrial Cooperation and Joint Investment Ventures Between Yugoslav and Foreign Firms. Belgrade: Jugoslovenski institut za ekonomska istraživanja, 1968.

Woodward, Susan. Socialist Unemployment – The Political Economy of Yugoslavia. New Jersey: Princeton University Press, 1995.

1 Ramnat, “Yugoslavia: Self-Management”; Prinčič, “Tuje naložbe”; Woodward, Socialist Unemployment, 165–90; Bićanić, Economic Policy, 192–210; Flakierski, The Economic System; Dyker, Yugoslavia – Socialism, Develepomnet, Debt, 19–90.

2 Conner, “Joint Ventures in Yugoslavia,” 46.

3 Milutinovich et al., “Investment in Yugoslavia,” 53.

4 Prinčič, “Direktorski položaj.”

5 Bučar, Podjetje in družba, 109–20.

6 Bozescu, “Joint-Ventures in Eastern Europe.”

7 Prinčič, V začaranem krogu, 117–32.

8 Gnjatović, Uloga inostranih sredstava, 90–93.

9 Prinčič, V začaranem krogu, 117–32; Prinčič, “Tuje naložbe.”

10 Chittle, “Direct Foreign Investment,” 771–73.

11 Sukijanović and Vujačić, Industrial Cooperation, 22–38.

12 Investiranje stranog kapitala.

13 Prinčič, “Tuje naložbe,” 112–19; Artisien and Buckley, “Joint Ventures in Yugoslavia,” 117–20.

14 Artisien and Buckley, “Joint Ventures in Yugoslavia,” 114–17.

15 Patton and Do, “Joint Ventures in Yugoslavia,” 53.

16 Lamers, Joint Ventures Between Yugoslav and Foreign Enterprises, 205–16; Artisien and Buckley, “Joint Ventures in Yugoslavia,” 120–32.

17 Artisien, Joint Ventures in Yugoslav Industry, 115.

18 Prinčič, “Tuja naložbe,” 117.

19 Lamers, Joint Ventures Between Yugoslav and Foreign Enterprises, 216–19; Patton and Do, “Joint Ventures in Yugoslavia,” 54.

20 Jožica Velikajne, a former employee of Kolektor, on the joint venture with Kautt & Bux.

21 Lazarević, Kolektor.

22 Artisien, Joint Ventures in Yugoslav Industry, 170–73, 188–93.

23 Gnjatović, Uloga inostranih sredstava, 90–93.

24 Archer and Musić. “Approaching the socialist factory and is workforce,” 44–66.

 

Table 1. Foreign investments by economic sector, 1968–1980

Sector

Number of contracts

Total investments (millions of dinars)

Share of capital

Food, Drinks, and Tobacco

17

2,577

5.5 %

Chemicals and Allied Industries

27

5,843

12.5 %

Industries in Which Metals Were Used

17

2,269

4.8 %

Production of Metals

12

22,218

47.8 %

Wood and Paper Industry

8

3,094

6.7 %

Transport Equipment

17

5,860

12.6 %

Electrical Engineering

14

1,395

2.9 %

Rubber Industry

8

2,178

4.7 %

Other Industries and Activities

44

1,137

2.5 %

 

Source: Artisien and Buckley, “Joint Ventures in Yugoslavia,” 116.

2021_3_Zsuzsanna Varga

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Practices of Creative Disobedience: A Key to Economic Success in Socialism? A Case Study of a Hungarian Agricultural Cooperative

Zsuzsanna Varga
Eötvös Loránd University
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Hungarian Historical Review Volume 10 Issue 3  (2021):444-465 DOI 10.38145/2021.3.444

In this article, I examine the fate during the decades of socialism in Hungary of the agricultural company Árpád-Agrár Ltd. of Szentes, which which has flourished up to the present day. Its predecessor, the Árpád Mezőgazdasági Termelőszövetkezet (Agricultural Producer Cooperative), was established in 1960, during the last wave of collectivization. Most members were gardeners who specialized in a Bulgarian type of horticulture.

One of the central questions in my inquiry is how individual gardeners’ best practices were preserved and further developed within the structure of a socialist cooperative. I also consider how the Árpád Cooperative used the economic reforms of 1968 to expand its market-share.
In my analysis of the successful transfer of knowledge and processes of adaptation, I devote particular attention to the human factor, taking into consideration both the changing relationship between the leadership and the membership of the cooperative and the formation of a class of managers who had had experiences in the West and had a more open-minded mentality. These factors offer a possible explanation as to why this agricultural community chose the organizational form of a cooperative at the time of the change of the political regime and was transformed into a public limited liability company only a decade later.

Keywords: Hungary, socialist cooperatives, horticulture, adaptation, bottom-up initiatives, agrarian lobby, market reforms, innovation

Árpád-Agrár Ltd. in Szentes is considered one of the national leaders in Hungary in the production of cocktail tomatoes and peppers as well as in the growing of seedlings. Vegetable cultivation is based on renewable energy and the utilization of thermal water and cutting-edge technology. For the purpose of protecting plants, the use of chemicals has been replaced with the use of organic materials.

Immediately after entering the company’s office in Szentes, one notices the certificates, awards, and diplomas from every decade of the enterprise’s existence decorating the walls. The earliest are from the 1960s, from the time of the Árpád Mezőgazdasági Termelőszövetkezet (Agricultural Producer Cooperative).1 The current company views the Cooperative as its predecessor both from the legal perspective and from the perspective of historical continuity. The commitment to this continuity is reflected in the way both the 50th and 60th anniversaries were celebrated.

In this paper, I focus on the socialist period of the company’s history. I begin with a discussion of how “socialist” the Árpád Cooperative really was. How did individual farmers dealing with intensive horticulture and production for the market fit into a socialist-type large-scale organization which at the time was essentially unknown in the world of Hungarian agriculture? I also consider how the Cooperative used the economic reforms of 1968 to expand its market. I make use in my analysis of the official documents of the Árpád Cooperative as well as the press and oral sources.2

Historical Background

The roots reach back to 1875, when Bulgarian gardeners moved to Hungary, or more specifically to the estate of the Count László Károlyi, where they founded a farm of roughly 15 hectares (ha).3 The Bulgarians made sure to settle alongside natural waterways. The major elements of the Bulgarian-type of gardening were the following: careful choice and arrangement of plants, protection against frost, use of hot-beds for seedlings, raised beds for growing, continuous irrigation, and soil treatment. Using these methods, the settlers and their descendants were able to get their vegetables to market before other producers, which led to significant profits.4

Most of the labor was handled manually. For periods of planting, hoeing, picking, and preparation for market, the Bulgarian gardeners hired seasonal laborers. More and more of these laborers learned these unique methods, and over time, vegetable growing in Szentes began to resemble Bulgarian horticulture more and more. Between the two World Wars, specialization became advanced. The production of green peppers and early cabbage varieties came to the fore, and the comparatively small gardens (1–1.5 ha) could produce significant incomes for various families. Before World War II, more than 700 families in Szentes produced vegetables for market distribution.5

In this region, the land reform of 1945 did not cause significant restructuring, as there were no large estates to divide.6 The situation of the local society remained much as it had been between the two World Wars. On the one hand, there was a group of small-plot, market-oriented gardeners, while on the other there was also the continued presence of a large group of landless agricultural laborers.

In the second half of 1948, the forced organization of cooperatives began, based on the Soviet model.7 In socialist agriculture, the place of individual farmers was taken by large-scale plants (sovkhozes, kolkhozes) which were based on collective production. As such, the planned economy, based on mandatory plan targets, was spread to agriculture. The compulsory delivery system and policy of price control ensured that the producer (the farmer) kept less and less of the profits made from the product. This was the antithesis of how the specialized gardeners of Szentes, who produced for the market, farmed. It is not surprising that they did not want to give up individual farming for a collective farming. The other significant section of local society, the landless agricultural laborers, took a different view. They saw the cooperatives as an employment opportunity and thus were the major social basis of the emerging world of socialist agriculture. The first cooperative in Szentes was founded in 1948, largely with the participation of prisoners of war returning from the Soviet Union, which is why it was named “Kalinin.”8

At the beginning of the process of forced collectivization, the leadership of the Hungarian Communist party9 was of the view that three to four years would be enough to force the Hungarian peasantry into socialist agriculture. Due to the resistance of the peasantry, neither the first (1949–53) nor the second (1955–56) collectivization campaigns reached the target goals.10 After the suppression of the 1956 revolution, in its efforts to consolidate its hold on power, the Kádár government abandoned compulsory deliveries and halted the second collectivization campaign. A large portion of the peasantry took advantage of the opportunity to leave the collective, and the number of cooperative members decreased from 343,000 to 119,000.11

While most of the peasantry was leaving the cooperatives at the turn of 1956–57, the gardeners of Szentes decided that they would form a genuine cooperative. On January 27, 1957, 68 gardeners in Szentes established a szakszövetkezet (a sort of cooperative).12 This form of cooperation was quite different from the Stalinist model that was being promoted.13 The new enterprise brought together its members mainly in the areas of sales and purchasing but allowed them to continue pursue their work in horticulture individually. The gardeners of Szentes quickly responded to the new situation, in which they were no longer obliged to make compulsory deliveries of their agricultural products. Thus, the market economy made a partial reappearance in one of the major branches of the Hungarian economy. The gardeners of Szentes hoped to profit directly from these widening market opportunities without having to rely on purchases by state bodies.

After three successful years, however, the members felt that the cooperative was enjoying less and less political support, especially after the third collectivization campaign was launched in early 1959. After lengthy debates, the best path forward seemed to be to transform the cooperative into an agricultural producer cooperative.14 The decision was made at the general meeting of January 27, 1960.15Although they could have joined another existing cooperative, as more than ten had been established in Szentes by this point, they decided to establish their own. This made it possible for them to choose their own leadership and keep control over several other essential issues. The investments of the post-1957 period were not lost, as they were transferred to the collective property of the new cooperative. 78 percent of the members of the earlier cooperative joined the Árpád Agricultural Cooperative.

What was behind the Socialist Facade?

When establishing the cooperative, one of the most important tasks was to prepare the charter laying out the ground rules, which were based on the Soviet kolkhoz legal form.16 For example, the members were obliged to manage their production tools and livestock in a collective form. Another mandatory element was collective labor in the form of brigades and smaller work groups. The cooperative members were given “work units” in exchange for their labor. The “work unit” served as a means of quantifying labor and the foundation of remuneration.17

During the first two collectivization campaigns in the 1950s the Hungarian cooperatives were given a model legal framework (charter) all the points of which were mandatory. On the eve of the third collectivization campaign, the Ministry of Agriculture published a model charter which functioned only as a guideline for basic rules, so it provided a degree of flexibility.18 For example, it recommended the Soviet “work unit” system as the most advanced form of remuneration, but this could be combined with alternative forms of payment. There was also some flexibility concerning household plots.19

The membership of the Árpád Cooperative in Szentes took advantage of this opportunity and enacted 14 modifications when writing its own charter.20 My interview subjects often repeated the words of the former cooperative president László Szabó: “When one can see he needs new clothes, it is best to go to the tailor and have some custom made rather than simply acquire one-size-fits-all, as whatever you get off the rack, it will either be too loose or too tight.”21 László Szabó himself was a successful and respected gardener, and he thus knew that this branch, which required exceptional attention and expertise, could not be transformed overnight into a completely foreign and unknown labor organization.

What did this mean in practice? The Árpád Cooperative organized mandatory labor brigades, but the members continued to work individually in their own gardens and conducted sales collectively. There was thus no labor supply issue for the cooperative, as members could bring in family members who were not members of the cooperative. The so-called family-farmed horticultural brigade was directed by a respected local gardener, Imre Kotymán. The form in which labor was organized was not the only thing which was adjusted to local farming traditions. Remuneration was also revised, integrating the logic of sharecropping, which created clear incentives.22

As part of the efforts to adjust to the main profile of horticulture, an unusual set of regulations was worked out for household plots. Members could choose to request a maximum of 0.5 ha of arable land per household plot. A fraction or complete area of this could be used for gardening, and in these cases, the household plot was calculated based not on area but instead on the number of hot-beds. It is also worth mentioning that the cooperative established a bare minimum number of labor units per household when measuring eligibility.23

In order for the cooperative to be able to adopt this outwardly socialist but inwardly (in terms of several of its elements) individual horticulture system, it had to have the approval of both the city and county party leadership. This was especially significant given that the cooperative president was not a member of the Communist party. The party secretary of Szentes, Sándor Labádi, had a key role. He was present at the cooperative’s general meetings and took a proactive part in the debates.24 With the knowledge he gleaned here, he was able to convince the higher authorities that these local initiatives were not concessions which would allow old-time peasant lifestyles to continue but rather were measures which would contribute to the transformation of the economy. Such local initiatives made continuity in labor-intensive vegetable production possible, and this served the interests of consumers in the cities.25

The reason this line of argument worked was that the same approach was being announced at the time at the national level of agricultural policy by the members of the agrarian lobby centered around Lajos Fehér (Ferenc Erdei, Imre Dimény, Ernő Csizmadia, etc.).26 They supported grassroots initiatives that improved the individual incentives of cooperative members and in turn ensured growth in production. Erdei’s research institute, the Research Institute of Agricultural Economics of the Hungarian Academy of Sciences (in Hungarian, Agrárgazdasági Kutató Intézet, or AKI), had been following and analyzing changes in the local practices of remuneration and work organization for years. Based on their studies, Fehér and his group convinced the political leadership to accept these local initiatives in spite of the fact that most of them deviated from the kolkhoz Model Charter. Thanks to the successful mediation between the party leadership and the peasantry, in the first half of the 1960s, more and more local initiatives were transferred from the category of “forbidden” to the category of “tolerated,” and this significantly widened the scope of action for cooperatives.27

In this atmosphere, after the initial difficulties of the transformation, the leaders of the Árpád Cooperative began to consider the idea of large-scale horticulture. Initially, this was tested only on a restricted area, because they had difficulty convincing twelve people to work on a trial basis for a year. However, the first year produced such impressive results that in the following year large-scale horticulture was implemented on a far bigger area. The expanding area provided ever more opportunities for the use of machinery. The seedling planting tractor and a modern irrigation system became cost-efficient when used on large territories.

As an effect of the improvements in production and higher earnings, large-scale horticulture became increasingly attractive over the course of the next several years. The 60-person brigade was formed into a well-integrated collective. The wisdom of the cooperative leadership is reflected in the fact that they did not try at the same time to eliminate the family-farmed horticultural brigade. In fact, they even offered support to expand it (more land, irrigation systems, etc.). This group also became more efficient and remained an independent labor organization unit within the cooperative. The two vegetable-producing units recorded their costs and production results separately (i.e. independently of each other), but they competed with each other in production and development. The minutes of the leadership meetings indicate a spirit of competition which motivated both units and led to increasingly impressive results.28 In 1964, the Árpád Cooperative began regularly to win prestigious national awards. These awards included prizes won at the National Agricultural Fair for products like peppers, kohlrabi, tomatoes, etc. as well as recognition given by the Ministry of Agriculture.29

The Period of Market Reforms

In the early years, when there was an actual disjuncture between legal norms and cooperative behavior, practices of “creative disobedience” played a key role. They led to visible results which made the Árpád Cooperative a unique phenomenon among Hungarian cooperatives.30 In the mid-1960s, the overwhelming majority of producer cooperatives struggled with start-up difficulties, shortages of equipment and labor, and unwillingness to work. The abovementioned grassroots initiatives facilitated the consolidation process of the cooperatives, but there were many villages and smaller communities where local leaders stuck with the Stalinist rules. In coping with the defiance of the provincial party-state, Lajos Fehér and his network tried to create a legal and administrative environment in which the authorization of local initiatives coming from below would be independent from the attitude of the local party-state apparatus. To this end, they initiated a comprehensive agricultural reform program. 31

As preparations for the general economic reforms progressed in Hungary and the contours of the New Economic Mechanism emerged, the arguments of the agrarian lobby received increasing attention and acceptance. The leadership of the Hungarian Socialist Workers’ Party sought a solution through a new system of economic management, one which combined planned and market economies. In an interview on precursors to the New Economic Mechanism, Economic Policy Secretary of the Central Committee Rezső Nyers indicated that the agricultural reform “had already addressed the questions of the economic mechanism from the agricultural perspective.”32 This is largely explained by the fact that, since the abolition of the compulsory delivery system in November 1956, a significant amount of experience with market incentives had been gathered. Among the many reform steps in agriculture, I will mention here only those that affected the functioning of cooperatives. The cancellation of machine-tractor stations in 1965, the write-off of debt, and an adjustment of the pricing system in 1966 all meant that the dismantling of the Stalinist system of socialist agriculture had begun.33

In the fall of 1967, Parliament accepted two laws which defined the economic and social relations of agricultural cooperatives for the next twenty years. 34 The new legislation incorporated the fruits of successful collaboration between the politicians and high-level administrators in the agrarian lobby and the agrarian economists. Law III on agricultural producer cooperatives aimed to resolve the duality which had arisen from the discrepancy between producer cooperative practice and the legal regulations in force. The abovementioned “tolerated” local practices, especially in the areas of remuneration, work organization, and household plot farming, were finally “legalized” in 1967.35

What did this significant shift mean for the life of the Árpád Cooperative in Szentes? Cooperative president László Szabó summarized this for the members as follows:

In the period of direct control, the state dictated the resources that the cooperatives would receive, specified how much they could produce and what they could produce, and stipulated who they could produce for and what price they could sell at. Whatever income remained was distributed to the members after public debts had been settled. Development was precisely dictated and had to be financed through credit, as the farms lacked their own funds at the time.

Indirect control caused an enormous change, given that within a regulatory framework, the collective’s leadership itself defined what it would produce, and at the time could choose for whom and for what price. Income covered costs, and members were given shares based not only on the proportion of their contributed labor: members could define their development from funds collected from their own income.36

For the cooperative, 1967 was truly the beginning of a new era. This was apparent in modifications made to its production system. Earlier, it had been forced to produce certain products in the name of “the expectations of the peoples’ economy” or “supply responsibility,” regardless of economic common-sense. Had these decisions been left to the cooperative membership or leadership, they would have been made differently. The Árpád Cooperative, which was based on horticulture, had become something of a “variety shop” by the 1960s. The expectation that all agricultural cooperatives produce meat and bread applied to them and to all other cooperatives.

In addition to horticulture, the other two main branches of the cooperative were cropping and husbandry. As of 1968, both could be rationalized in accordance with local conditions. A few plant types that were produced just for “the interest of the peoples’ economy” were phased out of the plant sector. And as pig breeding and shepherding were de-emphasized, the development of turkey and goose husbandry was brought to the fore.37 The guiding principles in the structuring of activities were profitability and increased efficiency. Taking advantages of opportunities in Law III of 1967, the Árpád Cooperative began expanding so-called supplementary activities falling outside its core agricultural activities (e.g., hiring out transportation and producing in-house animal compound feed). The most dynamically growing unit was the cooperative’s construction brigade. While earlier the execution of investments required waiting for state construction firms to schedule, from this point on, the farm provided its own construction crew.38 A 20-hectare greenhouse covered by polyethylene sheets was constructed between 1969 and 1971. In 1972 a 6.5-hectare glass greenhouse area was completed. (Today this is called the “old yard.”) The first modern turkey plant in the Árpád Cooperative was built between 1973 and 1976. In the last third of the 1970s, two large investment projects were carried out. One involved the construction of a 13.6-hectare glass greenhouse yard between 1977 and 1980 (the new yard), and the other was the creation of a new office center.39

Market reforms enabled the cooperative to manage the goods it produced, i.e., they gave the cooperative the opportunity to conduct sales. Corporate clients from this point on had a direct relationship with the cooperative, and the “tutelage” of local councils came to an end. Cooperatives could sell goods produced collectively or on household plots both to corporate purchasers and retailers, food industry companies, and foreign trade companies. This was called the multi-channel sales system. Furthermore, the cooperatives could open their own shops in which they could sell their goods.

In the new economic environment after 1967, the “creative disobedience” of the early years turned into a situation in which the cooperative was technically sticking to the new Cooperative Law but was pushing the regulations to their limits. Below, I will present examples which show why this was necessary.

The Human Factor

The Law III of 1967 created an entirely new situation for the cooperative membership by cancelling the “remainder-principle” income distribution system inherited from the Stalinist kolhoz. While earlier, the cooperatives had only been able to pay their members after they had met their obligations to the state, beginning in 1968, they could count payment for labor during the season as a production expense. Payment, as such, thus took priority over state budget receivables and the payout of material expenses. As a result, for the first time in their lives, cooperative members were paid a predetermined and guaranteed sum and, in proportion with the work performed, were regularly and continuously paid wages. The stabilization of incomes situation increased the attractiveness of the cooperative sector. While in the years of collectivization and even later migration from the agricultural sector was significant, by the late 1960s, the process had reversed and workers were beginning to return to agriculture.40

By the end of the decade, the increasing appeal of the Árpád Cooperative is shown in the fact the farm could hire people for a trial period. 41 After one or two years of employment, a decision was made on whether to offer a given employee membership. (The status of member had several advantages which were not available to employees.) The trial period thus served as a useful filter in the interests of creating a quality labor pool. For this reason, the fact that all cooperatives in the socialist period had employment duties throughout (meaning they were forced to employ all applicants) is worthy of attention.

In terms of the renewal of the labor pool, a new tendency emerged, whereby an increasing number of the children of cooperative members considered joining the cooperative. László Szabó proudly reported on this during one of the general meetings:

[T]he children of the cooperative members are knocking on the door. It is as if the ice has broken, as if they have tossed aside the old habit of the children of cooperative members becoming industrial workers only; they are coming and applying. We accept these young people as members, so that using the property their father gathered they may learn to farm. With the entry of young people, new needs will appear for culture, sports, kindergartens, but in the future we will spend on this from our income, which we earned together!42

 

Examining the social base of the cooperative, we see that scholarships were offered to those who continued their education in agricultural faculties on the condition that they work at the cooperative after graduating. Young married couples received support to build homes (interest-free loans), and later a separate financial fund was created for this purpose. This all helped ensure that experts with higher education would gladly settle in Szentes. In the 1970s, retiring members who had a past of individual gardening and experience were replaced by young people with degrees from universities and colleges.43

In the 1970s, several cooperatives in the country experienced changes in the post of president. Many of the “founding fathers” with peasant roots stepped away from the position of president at this time, as they felt they could not keep up with accelerating developments.44 László Szabó, who was born in 1910, was able to keep pace, and he surrounded himself with young experts. He was an outstanding team builder. This characteristic is reflected in the following anecdote: during his 25-year term (1960–1985), he was often asked what the secret to being a successful cooperative president was. His answer was, “the most important thing is to make sure that the branch managers do not provoke fights with one another!”

In the 1970s, with a well-trained pool of experts, the Árpád Cooperative entered a new period of growth. Their vegetable production took place in three different types of greenhouses:

• By the end of the decade, the area of its glass-covered greenhouses reached 27 hectares;

• An additional 48 hectares of greenhouses were covered with polyethylene sheets with their own heating systems; and

• 41 hectares without heating systems.45

At that point, the cooperative already had twelve thermal water wells. After the 1973 oil crisis, while energy costs soared, the value of local energy sources increased. These were used in several ways in local farming. Glass and foil greenhouses were heated using local energy sources, as was the turkey plant and, later, the grains drying facility.46

Cooperation in Research, Development, and Consulting

At the time of the New Economic Mechanism, the leadership of the Hungarian Socialist Workers’ Party recognized the necessity of opening to the West.47 Thanks to the agrarian lobby, large-scale agricultural farms played an intensive role in knowledge and technology transfers.48 Hungarian cooperatives adopted industrial-like closed production systems from capitalist countries. After livestock breeding and cropping systems had been transformed, in the mid-1970s, a large number of horticulture production systems also began to undergo change.49

In order to launch effective development within horticulture, three conditions had to be met. Experts familiar with the most up-to-date production procedures had to be available, people were needed who had production experience with new methods, and the sector had to be able to acquire necessary funds. The system organizer accepted responsibility for working out industrial-like technological solutions and continuously developing them. Furthermore, he was responsible for technically adapting the systems for adjoining member farms, in accordance with local conditions. Local expert consultation was also continuously provided. 50

One of the basic conditions for the dynamic development of horticulture production systems was cooperation among people involved in research, education, and consulting. Under the chairmanship of Professor László Koródi, the Department of Vegetable Production at the Horticultural University worked on plant breeding, the training of expert engineers, and the installment of a professional advisory system, which was an enormous boon to transitioning production systems. He worked particularly closely with the Árpád Cooperative.51

The technical development launched in the early 1970s caused deep-rooted changes in production, as the increased use of machinery and chemical materials led to the introduction of new breeds and new agro-procedures. After the end of World War II, the technology of greenhouse construction developed rapidly, especially in the cold countries of Western Europe. The Netherlands turned out to be the market leader. Although Hungarian cooperatives could import greenhouses mainly from East Germany, horticultural experts regularly took part in study tours in Netherlands.52

Cooperation in Sales

As noted above, according to the 1967 Law on cooperatives, the farms themselves chose how to sell their products. Furthermore, cooperatives selling vegetables and fruits were given a free hand in setting their sale prices. A reader today gets a sense of the significance of this by recalling that one of the most important characteristics of the planned economy was the system of centrally determined fixed prices. The New Economic Mechanism reformed this approach by introducing a three-pronged pricing system: prices set by the state were accompanied by prices that could fluctuate within a spectrum set by the authorities and also free market prices, which were determined solely by supply and demand.53

From January 1, 1968, fruit and vegetable prices were also included in the free price category. Numerous barriers to the actual emergence of market logic remained, however. One of the most important of these barriers was the fact that the storage and transport infrastructure remained in the hands of the Zöldért enterprises, which thus continued to purchase the dominant share of produce.54 Prices exercised a defining influence here too. Formally, Zöldért enterprises did not have a monopoly position, but they nevertheless dictated prices, and their profits depended on the price differential between consumer and producer prices, which could amount to a difference of two or three times. Thus, they could generate a significant income by doing nothing more than buying products and selling them to the enterprises with retail networks, such as Közért and Csemege. Their interest was in maintaining this price differential rather than in maximizing sales, and they were protected by their de facto monopoly. Such a system, in which their interests were separate from those of both producers and consumers, was especially harmful in the case of early season vegetables. At the end of the rather lengthy product chain, this system had negative consequences for both producer and consumer, albeit in different ways.

The conflict between the Árpád Cooperative in Szentes and the Zöldért company of Csongrád County would merit a separate paper. In an interview with me, Dr. Sándor Márton, the chief accountant of the cooperative, stated that as early as the 1960s he and other members of the cooperative leadership had advocated for the removal of this unnecessary and costly middleman. 55 As a result of the market reforms of 1968, the legal framework was established, and the leaders of the cooperative launched an effort to attain wholesaler rights. This required finding allies at the highest levels. Imre Dimény, Minister of Agriculture and Food, played a decisive role in this. 56

At the initiative of the Árpád Cooperative, the so-called Early Vegetable Production System was established in 1975. In addition to production, it dealt with several kinds of sales based on common interests. The Early Vegetable Production System of Szentes covered glass greenhouses, heated and unheated plastic foil greenhouses, and early outdoor/open-air production.

Initially, the initiative had two partners. Within five years, there were eight, and two years later, there were twenty. By this point, the Early Vegetable Production System covered three counties (Csongrád, Szolnok, and Bács-Kiskun). It is important to add that the system covered 20 farms and 3,500 household gardens and small-scale producers.57 The Árpád Cooperative played the role of gestor in the Early Vegetable Production System. It provided know-how and the production technology for certain varieties of sprouts to member farms. In order to be able to share the best technology, it established cooperation with the Horticultural University and the Consulting Service of the Vegetable Production Research Institute. The consultants of the Early Vegetable Production System offered assistance not only in the field of production technology adaptation, but also in compliance, with weekly visits to the member farms.58

The integration of production entailed cooperation among the members of the Early Vegetable Production System in the field of purchasing, given that in vegetable production, systems increasing volumes of seeds and consultancy had to be acquired, as did plant protection materials, machinery, and parts.

Regarding joint interests in sales, its essence lay in the fact that the member farms, unlike when dealing with Zöldért, did not calculate vegetables by the percentage of price gap but instead based on joint decisions defining the commercial costs per kilogram of product. They held that the greatest success in their first year was the sale of vegetables for 58 million forints at a cost of only 2.1 million Forint, which represented 3.6 percent of gross value: “those participating in the system had never conducted commerce this cost-efficiently.”59

By the mid-1980s, the Early Vegetable Production System had established contractual relationships with 46 companies and twelve private traders.60 Early Vegetable Production System trucks made weekly deliveries to Szombathely in the same manner as they did deliveries to the ÁFÉSZ chain of shops in Nyíregyháza. The outstanding quality of the vegetables is reflected in the fact that there were private commercial partners who were willing to travel as much as 330 km in their cars from Nagykanizsa to pick up produce.

It is also interesting to note how, in the communication networks of the time (when computers were not in use), it was possible to harmonize the production and sales processes of several primary products. Dr. Miklós Csikai, who directed the Early Vegetable Production System from 1983, summarized this in the following way in an interview:

The branch managers of the member farms met at least three to four times a year for a discussion, the goal of which was to develop the plan for the next year. These are then the circles of customers, which currently stand at several hundred small and large companies, economic units, and stores. In this way, the annual quantities of given products and given cooperatives develop, and the production system ensures them secure sales. Knowing this, the given cooperatives put together their final production plans, with attention paid to the household greenhouse producers with contracts. Everything counts: type, quality, quantity, and time of delivery handled by the production system, but in the meantime they are informed about demands.

The contracts lay all this out in precise detail. Based on them, work begins in the glass and plastic foil greenhouses. Later, throughout the year, they always know precisely how much produce to sell, in which week, and on which exact day.

Every Wednesday at 10:00am, the representatives of the member farms involved in common sales meet in my room and calculate the quantity of goods, with a daily breakdown, which are offered up for joint sale by the various cooperatives. This is very precise data, and that is necessary, as our sales division can only come to agreements with various buyers with this knowledge in hand.61

Before my reader forms a utopian notion of the functioning of the socialist vegetable market, let me note that the “state of war” with Zöldért lasted throughout the period. I offer a few examples of this conflictual relationship. The Early Vegetable Production System carried out significant exports. For example, they controlled 90 percent of all exported green peppers. Produce for export was transported in refrigerated wagons. They were stacked at the Zöldért side tracks by the System’s own workers, meaning the Zöldért employees never touched the produce. However, Zöldért charged a disproportionately high price per 100 kg. There were also constant conflicts in domestic commerce. A warehouse was rented from Zöldért for which the company charged ten times the normal rate. Ministerial mediation between the parties was in vain, and the conflict only began to subside at the end of the 1980s, when the Zöldért company of Csongrád county signed a cooperation agreement with the Early Vegetable Production System. The 1987 agreement laid out the following goal: “with an eye on common interests to create the conditions for fruit and vegetable production in the region, a unified distribution system, and at the same time a more efficient operation of the tools created for this purpose and in the hands of Zöldért.”62 Every word was justified and would have been appropriate earlier as well, but the agreement came too late. The agreement was quickly made redundant by the regime change. In the end, the Árpád farm bought Zöldért’s former facility.

After the Regime-Change

In Szentes, the year 1990 marked not only the change of regime but also a change in the post of president. Dr. János Lóczi, who had succeeded László Szabó in 1985, resigned from his post. The membership elected as president Dr. Miklós Csikai, the director of the Early Vegetable Production System. 63 His leader mentality and approach were of vital importance during the transition. As he explained in our interview, he spent most of 1992 sitting down with people to discuss the future of the cooperative. 64 Based on experience he had gained in the Netherlands, he was able to explain how cooperatives could have a legitimate role in the market economy. The players in horticulture could only reduce their vulnerability to powerful commercial chains and suppliers by working together. Although each member could have claimed property valued in the millions of Forints, in the end, only 27 of the 1,024 members indicated their intention to quit the collective.65 This number meant that an absolute majority of the members recognized that in the interests of the efficient use of accumulated property and employment for about a 1,000 people, they should remain together and continue to work together.

At the end of the 1990s, the Árpád farm underwent another organizational change. Given the agricultural policy climate of the time, those functioning as collectives had limited opportunities. In 1999, the Árpád cooperative, like many other cooperatives, decided that it would transform into a joint stock company.66 A mission statement from this time makes clear the importance of continuity in the value system:

Mission: Our tradition-respecting, capital-strong stock company, with its team of well-prepared experts, will satisfy and meet the expectations of consumers and their needs, serve its partners, stockholders, and employees with forward-thinking, market-sensitive planning, detailed quality work and outstanding products and services.

Vision: Árpád-Agrár Ltd. as a stock company which works in harmony with its environment, respects traditions, has widespread international business relations, and is known in Europe and across the country.

Producing branded products on an outstanding organic foundation, with up-to-date technology, at a world-class level, which meet the strictest food-security standards and consumer demands. From producing basic materials to the final product, with processes built on one another, and with the services we deliver to ensure the full satisfaction of customers and stable and high profits. Playing an integrating role in the region, the company provides a stable living for several thousand families. We serve as an example in our use of high-level horticultural technology which is environmentally friendly.

Responsible and risk-assessing management, highly trained employees, and the company’s retirees are all proud of the Árpád name, identify with its goals, and are satisfied individuals.67

Translated by Frank T. Zsigó

Archival Sources

Árpád-Agrár Zrt. Irattár [Archives of the Árpád-Agrár Ltd.] (ÁAI)

Szentes and its Region Fruit and Vegetable Production & Distribution Cooperative., 1957, 1959, 1960.

Árpád Agricultural Cooperative, 1960–1987.

Árpád Cooperative, 1992, 1999.

Árpád-Agrár Ltd., 2001.

Magyar Nemzeti Levéltár Országos Levéltára [National Archives of Hungary] (MNL OL) Budapest

M-KS-288. f. Documents of the Hungarian Socialist Workers’ Party, 1956–1989

Bibliography

Primary sources

Csongrád Megyei Hírlap [Csongrád County Newspaper], 1966, 1974, 1987.

Gazdasági Figyelő [Economic Observer], 1965, 1971.

Hajtatás, korai termesztés [Propagation, Early Cultivation], 1980.

Pártélet [Party Life], 1963.

Népszabadság [Free People], 1970, 1984.

 

Fóris, Imre ed. Mezőgazdasági termelőszövetkezeti törvény. Földjogi törvény [Law on collective farms: Law on land rights]. Budapest: Közgazdasági és Jogi Könyvkiadó, 1968.

Mezőgazdasági Statisztikai Zsebkönyv [Agricultural statistical pocketbook]. Budapest: KSH, 1971.

 

Interview with Miklós Csikai. March 12, 2019. (Author’s files.)

Interview with Imre Dimény. February 9, 2010. (Author’s files.)

Interview with Sándor Márton. August 23, 2019. (Author’s files.)

 

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Boross, Marietta. “Bolgár és bolgár rendszerű bolgár kertészetek Magyarországon 1870–1945” [Bulgarian and Bulgarian-type gardeners in Hungary, 1870–1945]. Ethnographia 84, no. 1–2 (1973): 29–52.

Bódi, Ferenc, and Ralitsa Savova. “A bolgárkertészek Magyarországon a 19. század végén és a 20. század első felében – környezeti és gazdaságantropológiai aspektusból” [Bulgarian-type gardeners in Hungary in the late nineteenth and first half of the twentieth century – from an environmental and economic anthropological point of view]. Magyar Tudomány 179, no. 3 (2018): 373–82.

Bóth, Ildikó ed. “A hagyomány kötelez!” A szentesi Árpád 60 éve, 1960–2020 [“Bound by Tradition!” 60 years of the Árpád Agricultural Company in Szentes, 1960–2020]. Budapest: Kossuth Kiadó, 2020.

Csikai, Miklós. “Kertészeti termelési rendszerek” [The horticultural production systems]. In A mezőgazdaság szolgálatában: Emlékkönyv Dimény Imre tiszteletére 90. születésnapja alkalmából [In the service of agriculture: Memorial book in honor of Imre Dimény on the occasion of his 90th birthday], edited by Judit Dimény, and Péter Szendrő, 105–16. Budapest–Gödöllő: SZIE, 2102.

Csikai, Miklós, Edit Takács, Pál Kruzslicz, László Kovács, and Zoltán Nagy, eds. Ötven év tükrében: Fotók – dokumentumok – adatok a Szentesi Árpád Agrár Zrt. 50 évéből [In the light of fifty years: Photos, documents, data from the 50 years of Szentesi Árpád Agrár Ltd.]. Szentes: Szentesi Árpád Agrár Zrt., 2010.

Davies, Robert William. The Soviet collective farm, 1929―1930. Cambridge, Mass.: Harvard University Press, 1980.

Erdei, Ferenc. “A Szentesi Árpád Tsz.” [The Árpád Producer Cooperative in Szentes]. Gazdálkodás, 11, no. 1 (1967): 41–43.

Ferber, Katalin, and Gábor Rejtő. Reform(év)fordulón [Reform anniversary]. Budapest: KJK, 1988.

Germuska, Pál. “Failed Eastern integration and a partly successful opening up to the West: the economic re-orientation of Hungary during the 1970s.” European Review of History: Revue européenne d’histoire 21, no. 2 (2014): 271–91.

Juhász, Pál. “Az agrárértelmiség szerepe és a mezőgazdasági szövetkezetek” [The role of the agricultural intelliegentsia and agricultural cooperatives]. Medvetánc 2–3, no. 4 (1982) and no. 1 (1983): 191–213.

Hann, Chris. Tázlár: a village in Hungary. Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 1980.

Mód, László. “Bolgár kertészek Szentes környékén” [Bulgarian-type gardeners around Szentes]. In A bolgárkertészkedés hagyományai Szentesen és környékén [The traditions of the Bulgarian-type of gardening in and around Szentes], edited by Szabó János József, 27–35. Szentes: Móra Ferenc Múzeum, 2003.

Ö. Kovács, József. “The Forced Collectivization of Agriculture in Hungary, 1948–1961.” In The Collectivization of Agriculture in Communist Eastern Europe, edited by Constantin Iordachi, and Arnd Bauerkämper, 211–42. Budapest–New York: CEU Press, 2014.

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Pető, Iván, and Sándor Szakács. A hazai gazdaság négy évtizedének története. 1945–1985 [The history of four decades of the domestic economy, 1945–1985]. Vol. 1. Budapest: KJK, 1985.

Schlett, András. Sziget a szárazföldön: A Bábolnai Állami Gazdaság története 1960 és 1990 között [An island on the continent: The history of the Bábolna State Farm between 1960 and 1990]. Budapest: Szent István Társulat, 2007.

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Varga, Zsuzsanna. “Three waves of collectivization in one country.” In Countryside and Communism in Eastern Europe: Perceptions, Attitudes, Propaganda, edited by Sorin Radu, and Cosmin Budeanca, 258–94. Berlin: LIT Verlag, 2016.

1 The academic literature on collectivized agriculture uses both the term collective farm and the term cooperative. In this paper, I use the term cooperative. The full translation of termelőszövetkezet is producer cooperative, emphasizing the difference from cooperatives for consuming or assessing credits. In this paper, the term cooperative should be understood as producer cooperative.

2 The archival materials of the Árpád Agricultural Cooperative are still in the company archives. Thanks to the excellent archivist work of Dr. Edit Takács, the files are arranged according to each predecessor: Szentes and its Region Fruit and Vegetable Production & Distribution Cooperative, Árpád Agricultural Cooperative, Árpád Cooperative, Árpád-Agrár Ltd. The archival references in this paper first give the predecessor’s name, then the box number, and finally the title and date of the document cited.

3 Mód, “Bolgár kertészek Szentes környékén,” 27–30.

4 Boross, “Bolgár és bolgár rendszerű bolgár kertészetek Magyarországon”; Bódi and Savova, “A bolgárkertészek Magyarországon.”

5 Takács, “Adatok.”

6 Belényi, “Az alföldi agrárvárosok,” 126–32.

7 Ö. Kovács, “The Forced Collectivization,” 211–21.

8 Mikhail Ivanovich Kalinin was a Soviet revolutionary. The names of later agricultural cooperatives often bore the names of heroes of both the Soviet and Hungarian communist movement. The political radicalism of the poor peasant membership was also reflected in the names like Red Flag, Red Star, Red Dawn, Liberation, etc. The local press (Viharsarok) regularly reported on these cooperatives.

9 The name of the communist party in Hungary changed several times. Between 1945 and 1948, it was the Hungarian Communist Party (MKP). Between 1948 and 1956, it was the Hungarian Workers’ Party (MDP). After 1956 and until its fall in 1989, it was the Hungarian Socialist Workers’ Party (MSZMP).

10 Varga, “Three waves of collectivization.”

11 MNL OL M-KS-288. f. 28/1957/1. ő.e. (This abbreviation – ő.e. – refers to the so-called “őrzési egység,” which was the smallest unit in the archival system of the party records.) Memo on the situation of the agricultural cooperatives and their problems, January 10, 1957.

12 ÁAI, Szentes and its Region Fruit and Vegetable Production & Distribution Cooperative. Box nr.1. Minute of the founders’ meeting. January 27, 1957.

13 Chris Hann devoted his book to specific type of Hungarian cooperative model which emerged mostly in regions dominated by vineyards, orchards, or horticulture. In his book, which was written in English, he retained the use of the Hungarian term szakszövetkezet. Hann, Tázlár.

14 These debates were reflected in the minutes of the general meetings. ÁAI Szentes and its Region Fruit and Vegetable Production & Distribution Cooperative. Box nr.1. Minutes of general assemblies, December 20, 1959, January 3, 1960.

15 ÁAI Árpád Agricultural Cooperative. Box nr.1. Minutes of the statutory meeting, January 27, 1960.

16 Davies, The Soviet collective farm, 131–70.

17 The brigade leaders kept written records in the “work unit” book of how many “work units” a member had earned for work done in the course of the year. At the end of the economic year, the member would be given a share of the cooperative’s income on the basis of this written record. To be more precise, wages were only divided among the members of the cooperative after the cooperative had met its obligations to the state. For a detailed discussion of the problems and failings of the “work unit” system, see Swain, Collective Farms, 42–44.

18 Varga, The Hungarian Agricultural Miracle, 127–29.

19 A cooperative member was permitted to maintain ownership of a household plot not more than 0.57 ha in size. A household was also permitted to have a specified number of livestock.

20 ÁAI Árpád Agricultural Cooperative. Box nr. 1. The model charter of the Árpád Cooperative, 1960.

21 Author’s interview with Miklós Csikai, March 12, 2019. Author’s interview with Sándor Márton, August 23, 2019.

22 Ferenc Erdei, who was one of the defining personalities of the agrarian lobby, published an article on the incentive system of the Árpád Cooperative. Born in Makó, during his visits home, Erdei regularly stopped at the Árpád Cooperative. Erdei, “A Szentesi Árpád Tsz,” 41–42.

23 Ibid. 43.

24 ÁAI Árpád Agricultural Cooperative. Box nr. 7. Minutes of the management meeting, 1960–1965.

25 See the article written by the first secretary of the MSZMP in Szentes district. Márton Kurucz, “A zöldségtermesztés nagyüzemi fejlesztése,” Pártélet, 8 (1963) 2: 72–79.

26 Lajos Fehér had joined the illegal communist movement as early as before 1945. It was at that time that he formed a close relationship with post-1956 party leader János Kádár. Between 1957–1962, Lajos Fehér was the head of the Agricultural Department of the MSZMP’s Central Committee. After 1962, as Deputy Prime Minister, he oversaw agriculture. See more on his network: Papp, Fehér Lajos, 295–314.

27 Varga, “Agricultural Economics.”

28 ÁAI Árpád Agricultural Cooperative. Box nr. 8. Minutes of the management meeting, 1966–1973.

29 See the “Chronology,” in Bóth, “A hagyomány kötelez,” 265–69.

30 Márton Lovas, “Szövetkezet-vezetés közgazdaság szemlélettel. A szentesi Árpád Tsz eredményei az országos versenyben,” Gazdasági Figyelő, June 9, 1965, 8. István Kaczúr, “El lehet érni újabb rekordokat. A paprika- és hagymatermesztésről beszélt Apró Antal a szentesi Árpád Tsz-ben,” Csongrád Megyei Hírlap, May 24, 1966, 1–2.

31 Varga, Az agrárlobbi, 121–40.

32 Ferber and Rejtő, Reform(év)fordulón, 20.

33 MNL OL, M-KS 288. f. 28/1966/8. ő.e. Submission on the guidelines of the new law on cooperatives. September 23, 1966.

34 Fóris, Mezőgazdasági termelőszövetkezeti törvény.

35 Varga, The Hungarian Agricultural Miracle, 190–95.

36 ÁAI Árpád Agricultural Cooperative. Box nr. 2. Minutes of the year-end assembly, January 19, 1970.

37 Csikai et al., Ötven év tükrében, 24.

38 Ferenc Cserkúti, “Merész tervek Szentesen. A termálvízzel fűtött üvegházak nagy hasznot hajtanak,” Népszabadság, April 7, 1970, 9.

39 See the “Chronology” in Bóth, “A hagyomány kötelez,” 265–69.

40 Mezőgazdasági Statisztikai Zsebkönyv, 230–31.

41 Márton Lovas, “Egy zárszámadás margórájára,” Gazdasági Figyelő, February 10, 1971, 10.

42 ÁAI Árpád Agricultural Cooperative. Box nr. 2. Minutes of the year-end assembly, January 27, 1973. 2–3.

43 At that time, the following people began working at the Árpád Cooperative: Gábor Hegedűs (seedling production), Levente György (livestock breeding), and the future president, Dr. János Lóczi (horticulture). Plant protection emerged as a new branch, led by plant protection engineer István Csölle.

44 Juhász, “Az agrárértelmiség szerepe.”

45 Csikai et al., Ötven év tükrében, 28–31.

46 József Tóth, “A termálenergia komplex felhasználása a szentesi Árpád Tsz-ben,” Csongrád Megyei Hírlap, February 6, 1974, 3.

47 Germuska, “Failed Eastern Integration.”

48 The Bábolna State Farm led by Róbert Burgert played a crucial role in the early phase of the technology transfer. András Schlett offers a well-articulated analysis. His monograph covers the whole socialist period of the Bábolna State Farm. Schlett, Sziget a szárazföldön, 35–45.

49 Varga, The Hungarian Agricultural Miracle, 201–12.

50 Csikai, “Kertészeti termelési rendszerek,” 109–13.

51 Ibid. 114–15.

52 After receiving his university degree in 1966, Miklós Csikai worked for a year at the Naaldwijk Research Institute in the Netherlands and at private gardeners in Westland. Author’s interview with Miklós Csikai, March 12, 2019.

53 Pető and Szakács, A hazai gazdaság, 433–39.

54 Among the state purchasing companies, its profile consisted of trading vegetables. This is what its name suggests, which is a kind of abbreviation of “vegetable sales.” It had a countrywide network.

55 Author’s interview with Sándor Márton, August 23, 2019.

56 Author’s interview with Imre Dimény. February 9, 2010. (Author’s files.)

57 Vilmos Taba, “Fóliás tájakon, IV.” Hajtatás, korai termesztés 11, no. 1 (1980): 20–27.

58 Csikai, “Kertészeti termelési rendszerek,” 110–12.

59 ÁAI Árpád Agricultural Cooperative. Box nr. 2. Minutes of the year-end assembly. February 7, 1976. 8.

60 “Termelőszövetkezeti zárszámadásokról jelentjük”, Csongrád Megyei Hírlap, February 7, 1987, 1–2.

61 Benedek Tóth, “Nagybani piac Szentesen. Sikeres a primőrök termelői értékesítése,” Népszabadság, July 31, 1984. 5.

62 ÁAI Árpád Agricultural Cooperative. Box nr. 14. Minutes of the management meetings, October 16, 1987.

63 Csikai et al., Ötven év tükrében, 28–31.

64 Author’s interview with Miklós Csikai, March 12, 2019.

65 ÁAI Árpád Cooperative. Minutes of the transformation assembly. August 7, 1992.

66 ÁAI Árpád Cooperative. Box nr. 1. Minutes of the general assembly. September 10, 1999.

67 ÁAI Árpád-Agrár Ltd. Box nr. 13. Minutes of the board’s meetings. December 6, 2001.

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